


Drop Of Red

by AnonymousSong



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Boys Kissing, Clubbing, Dancer!John, Fluff, Implied Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mentions of graphic death, Punklock, Ridiculous amounts of swearing, Tags to be added as chapters are added, Teenlock, Unilock, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:10:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSong/pseuds/AnonymousSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wasn’t aware that the bloke was in the cafe, at first. He must have crept in during rush hour and claimed a small table in the corner. It was all very dramatic looking: his dark curls, silver eyes expertly highlighted with eyeliner, and a wardrobe consisting of tight leather, gorgeous bone structure, and a wicked piercing. The shadows did a brilliant job of making him look like he walked out of a vampire novel. “Can I get you anything?” John asked. The teen slowly looked up and smirked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Sighting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuinnAnderson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinnAnderson/gifts).



> So, this is a gift for the lovely honeyboo from FuckYeahTeenLock who requested some Goth!Lock and since I'm always up for a challenge and love answering requests, I attempted it. It's not done! This is only the beginning~ *Dramatic lightning* 
> 
> Also, you should all know that I have no idea what I'm doing. Just fair warning.
> 
> I can also be found on Tumblr under this same username! :D
> 
> You all have lovely faces.
> 
> EDIT: I have been informed that the wardrobe Sherlock is described in is actually Punk. Whoops, I suck. SO THIS HAS BEEN EDITED aka tags have been changed and 'punk' has replaced 'goth'. Thank you, AriadnaVenegas. Let me kiss you~ I'll write some legit Goth!lock later after doing research. (So when you see the word 'punk,' it's not John thinking Sherlock is a little shit haha what)

John hadn’t even seen the bloke come into the cafe, which was odd because he noticed just about everyone who walked in. He put it up to that morning’s busier-than-usual rush hour, in which a whole hoard of frazzled freshman had bustled through, and then proceeded to order the most outrageous drinks possible. One girl’s order had been a full thirteen words and John had just stared at her for a long moment before asking her to repeat it. 

It was these sort of mornings which led him to actually wish for a co-worker. Mrs Hudson, the old woman who owned the little shop, promised that she’d find someone to help John out but as of yet, there had been no such luck.

With the last order of the morning given, a strawberry banana Frappuccino handed to a tired senior, John had finally looked around and noticed the teen in the corner. It made John’s lip quirk up, how very dramatic the kid looked. Dark curls, shaved short on the left, that hung over a pale face with - _Christ_ , who had cheekbones like that? His eyes were silver with expertly done eyeliner and his nails were painted black.

There was only one other student in the shop, a girl quietly reading over her notes, so John walked over to the table in the corner. He wondered what the teen was doing there. Almost all of the customers they got were uni students, seeing as how they were practically on top of the campus, and there was just no way that he was older than 17.

“Can I get you anything?” John asked. The boy’s eyes were trained on the book in his hand - Lovecraft by the looks of it - but he slowly tilted his head up. It was then that John noticed the piercing; it was a red stud, resting just under his full lower lip. It was a drop of colour in the dark ensemble and was eye-catching enough that John zeroed in on it. Not to mention, _his lips_.

John hoped he could keep his poker face in place, though judging by the growing smirk on the dark-haired boy’s face, he was failing spectacularly. The punk’s lips parted and John saw his tongue roll over the inside tip of the piercing.

“Coffee - black, two sugars,” commanded the boy, in a lazy baritone.

“That all?” John heard himself ask.

The boy tipped his head to the side, exposing a long line of neck that was collared by a simple, black choker. “What else would you recommend, John?”

He froze at his name. It took a few seconds before logic kicked in and he remembered that he had a name tag clearly displayed on his chest. John smiled to cover up his confusion. His eyes raked over the boy’s body, taking in tight, grey jeans shoved into black biker boots, and a spiked belt that looked too heavy to sit on his angular hips, much less keep his trousers up. There was barely a hint of a stomach that prompted John to respond, “We’ve a nice home-baked chocolate dish.”

This was greeted by a velvety humming sound, as if he was audibly considering it. He gave a lazy shrug, leaning back in his chair. “I haven’t the money for more than the coffee,” he said simply, giving John a quick once-over before going back to his book. The rings on his fingers slowly clinked together as he turned a page.

John stayed in his spot for a few moments, as if waiting for the boy to change his mind, before shaking his head and going to get the order.

A glance back at the dark boy showed that he was still engrossed in his book. John didn’t hesitate to load a plate with a square of the chocolate brownies that Mrs Hudson herself made. John would have liked to put at least one more piece on there because that boy was just skin and bones.

“Here you are,” he announced, placing the cup and plate down on the table. The plate was given a skeptical eyebrow and John hurriedly added, “It’s on the house.”

Silver eyes met his, narrowed just a touch before a small smile touched the boy’s lips. The humming noise returned as he took a sip of coffee. It left his top lip wet and his tongue darted out to catch the drops. John mentally slapped himself and tried to get his focus back. He retreated behind the counter again.

The hour mark hit and students trudged in, let out from class, half-awake with eyes swimming with too much information. John quickly served all of them, managing to not spill coffee down his front when a chap sneezed so loud that one girl let out a shriek of surprised terror. When the rush faded, he glanced over to the corner, strangely happy that the punk kid was still there. 

The brownie was in pieces, though not a crumb was on the table. As John watched, those long fingers picked up one of the larger crumbs and popped it into his mouth. He was still fully engrossed in his book, seemingly unaware that he was slowly working his way through the dessert.

A chime suddenly went through the cafe. The textbook girl pulled out her mobile, checked whatever message she had just received, and then jumped quickly to her feet, gathering her things frantically. In a matter of moments, she was rushing out the door.

The snap of a book sounded and John turned the boy in the corner. He was standing, with his things tucked into a messenger bag. A long coat was whipped off the back of the chair and donned, going over the long sleeve fishnet shirt and Bauhaus vest. His eyes were riveted to the window where the girl was still visible, rushing away.

A ten pound note was thrown onto the counter as the boy moved to the door. Perhaps by an impulse born of too many hours in a service job, John quickly called out, “Have a good day!”

The boy actually stopped in the door frame and even his coat moved dramatically in the cold breeze. He looked a bit surprised, though the expression quickly shifted into something unreadable. “Thank you... John.”

John smiled a bit. Despite how common his name was and that it was clearly printed on his chest, it never failed to make him a touch happy to hear it said by a customer. “You’re welcome...?”

The boy smirked at the silent question. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced with a quick wink and tongue click.

“Wait, your change!” John called as Sherlock flew out the door. He went in the direction the girl had run, a shrinking dark shape before he turned a corner and was gone.


	2. Hello Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait for this chapter! It turned into a beast like whoa. 
> 
> AND UM WHOA THERE YOU GUYS  
> SO MANY COMMENTS AND KUDOS AND ALL OF YOU BEING LOVELY  
> //cries
> 
> I love you all~
> 
> Especially Pawtal, my lovely Beta~ Darling, let me love you~
> 
> Warnings: I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never been to a club or really danced or really anything mentioned in this chapter so please! I love comments telling me how the real world works! If you see something that just tears against your skin because it's so wrong, please tell me! <3

For being such a low amount, the seven pounds and 80 pence sat rather heavily in John’s wallet. He wasn’t sure he’d ever see the boy, Sherlock, again but something kept him from putting the entire tenner in the register. It had taken up residence in his back pocket and no matter how peckish he got during class or how much he wanted that other jar of jam, he didn’t spend it.

John took to paying close attention to who walked into the cafe during rush hour, but there was no mop of black curls or silver, highlighted eyes.

“Is everything all right then, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked him after he split a caramel Frappuccino on himself. “You’ve been a tad distracted lately.”

John gave a hesitant chuckle, wiping foam off his front. “Uh, ‘s all fine, Mrs H. Classes, you know.”

The old woman gave a sweet smile, shaking her head. “You work yourself too hard, dear, for someone so young.”

“Can’t really afford to hang about,” John admitted with a sigh, getting a new cup down and restarting the drink. Mrs Hudson didn’t reply, save for thinning her lips and taking the next customer’s order.

Once the crowd had died down, he glanced around. There were a few kids discussing philosophy over their math notes and a girl in the back filling out a sketch of the human skeleton. After a full week, John should have given up looking.

“Watching for someone?” Mrs Hudson had a certain lift to her lips and a twinkle in her eye.

John felt his face flush. “Uh, not really, um, no,” he stammered. “Well, I guess? Sort of. I don’t know why I am. He’s probably not coming back...”

Mrs Hudson looked ready to burst with questions, eyes wide and curious. But, she had commented more than once, “Not your mother, dear,” and set about not getting into his business. That didn’t mean that she didn’t find everything out - she was rather good at putting the dots together and had a knack for eavesdropping.

“He came in last week,” John started to explain, wiping down the coffee machine while he did so. “Slipped in, didn’t even see him at first. Sat in the corner over there, minding his own business. He was dressed punk and-”

“Dressed what?”

“Punk - you know, lot of black, eyeliner, silver rings...” John lost himself in the image of the red lip piercing for a few moments. He snapped out of it, purposefully ignoring Mrs Hudson’s little wink. “He was reading Lovecraft and ordered a black coffee, two sugars. Said his name was Sherlock; bit of an odd name, but it fit.”

She patted him on the arm after setting down an order for a tired professor. “It’ll be fine, sweetie, you’ll see. It’ll all be fine.”

\---

John kicked the door shut behind him, leaning a bit to the left. He clomped into the kitchen, setting the heavy grocery bags down. As he unloaded the food, the blond student realised just how satisfying it was to see a full fridge.

“Finally! I feel like I’ve been half-starved for a week!” Ian cried, coming up to John’s side and grabbing a box of biscuits out of the grocery bags.

“Oi! Buy your own!” John laughed, snatching the box back. Ian gave an over exaggerated frown, making his brown eyes go all watery to add to the effect.

“But John! I’m hungry!” He proceeded to plop down onto the kitchen floor, sprawled like a dropped starfish and so much whinier. John fished two biscuits out and dropped them on Ian’s face. The lunatic grinned and wiggled his face around until both cookies fell into his mouth.

“If you choke, I won’t save you,” John commented. Ian jumped to his feet, crunching noisily, and started digging through the rest of the bags. “Ian, we won’t have any food for the rest of the week if you eat it all right now!”

Ian stuck his tongue out, like the very mature uni student that he was. “I’m not looking for food…” He huffed and turned away, throwing his hands in the air. “You didn’t get any beer again!”

“No, I didn’t, because last time I bought beer, it somehow all ended up in your stomach without a single drop getting into mine! Buy your own beer, mate, that’s the new rule.”

“But Teresa’s coming over! I can’t have my girl over and have nothing to offer her to drink! That’s caveman-like, that is!”

“You’ve got two legs and a full wallet. Buy your own beer. Better yet, take her to the pub! That way I won’t have to listen to your attempt at sweet talk; these walls are so depressingly thin.”

Ian shot up from his flop spot on the floor – what was up with him and being on the floor? – with a wide smile on his face. John actually backed up a step.

“John! That is a fantastic idea! Really, that is just cracking! We’ll go to the club!”

“Okay, for the record, I actually said ‘pub’ but whatever. And two, have you seen yourself dance? I nearly laughed myself into a coma at Alexis’ party at the sight of your lanky arse trying to dance.” John grinned at the memory.

Ian looked absolutely offended. “I dance great, mate; you’re just sore because you’re short and everyone knows that short people can’t dance.”

“Say that again - I’ll tackle you, I will.”

“Besides,” Ian continued, “Teresa’s in a hip-hop class or something. She’ll do all the dancing for the both of us.”

“I have no idea how you keep any girlfriends because you have got to have the worst memory of anyone I’ve known. Even I know that Teresa’s taking _ballet_.”

“Oh yeah. How did I forget that?” Ian looked confused. “Then who was it in a hip-hop class?”

“Not that I blame you, come to think of it. Her dance choice doesn’t exactly match her dress style.”

“Man, you have no idea how _brilliant_ ballet looks when it’s in all black and involves metal spikes.”

“Next thing I know, you’ll be flouncing around here like a nancy, all done up in your dress and such,” John teased.

Ian grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at John. It landed with a crash in the kitchen sink, freezing both boys in their tracks. The quiet settled and then was broken as they both burst into laughter.

“What kind of aim was that? You were about a mile away from me!” John gasped out, clutching his stomach.

“It’s not my problem that you’re the height of a tyke!”

“Shut your arse, you wanker!” John picked up the wet pillow and hurled it back at Ian. It landed with a satisfying plop and squawk of protest from the blond.

Once John had finished putting the last of the groceries and Ian had mopped off his face, there was the chirp of a phone. Ian pulled his mobile out and his face lit up.

“Teresa says she’s all right for the club.” He paused and seemed to realise something. “What do I wear?”

“Is it one of those punk clubs she likes?”

“Yeah. Think it’s called Purgatory or something.”

“Good luck, mate. I got a night of studying before me. Christ, I hate exams.”

Ian suddenly grabbed John’s shoulders, a near deranged look on his face. “John,” he breathed. “Come with us tonight!”

The shorter student sputtered out, “W-what?! To the club! I’m not going to be your third wheel!”

“Please! I can’t look stupid by myself!”

“You do that just fine everyday.”

“I left myself wide open for that one, didn’t I?” Ian asked, deadpan.

“Practically begged me to say it, you did.” John took a step back from his friend, holding his hands up as if in surrender. “Look, I can’t. I don’t have any of those kind of clothes either and I’ve got to study!”

“You study too much, John! I’m surprised that you can’t write the book from memory yet. Look, how’s this: I’ll buy the beer for the next month.”

John smirked, sensing a deal, his aim all along. He could work with deals; Ian liked skipping out on chores and such but hold a promise over his head and the guilt would eat him alive eventually. Ian audibly gulped at the gleam in John’s eye.

“No, I can still get the drink. You,” John pointed finger into Ian’s chest, “are responsible for taking out the trash.”

Ian reeled back as if slapped. “The trash?! No, come on, don’t do that, John!”

“Nope! If you want me to go with you tonight, you’ve got to swear to take the trash out for the next month.”

Ian looked honestly appalled, grimacing at the thought of the heaps of trash produced in a month by two young men in their early twenties. A visible shiver actually ran through him and he took a deep breath before nodding once.

“Alright, you tosser. You’re on.”

They shook on it with John feeling victorious.

\---

They stood outside the club and John was already regretting his so called victory.

“I cannot believe that I’m wearing this,” he grumbled, picking at the tight, black Crass shirt. He wanted to touch his now spiked hair but he’d already gotten his hand slapped away a few times for that.

Ian shoved him hard with his elbow. “Shut it, mate. Thank Teresa that she actually had something for you to wear. You would have gotten skinned if you had gone in there with your granddad clothes.”

“Oi, my clothes are-”

“Come on, you two.” Teresa appeared behind them, her usually curly hair slicked back into two puffed pigtails with bright blue streaks decorating them. She placed a hand on each of their shoulders, sharp, painted nails digging slightly into their shirts. Ian claimed that the nails felt a-bloody-mazing and John told him to shove it and keep his sex life to himself. He heard enough of it through the walls; he didn’t need mental images to go along with it.

Teresa pushed them in through the door - all of them flashing IDs to a bored bouncer - and straight past the queue for the coat check. She had already taken care of that, tickets held safely in her pocket. John had lost track of how many times they had had to wait until a place closed because Ian had forgotten his ticket somewhere, forcing them to wait and watch everyone leave until all by his coat was claimed.

As they entered, the muffled music bloomed into a deeper bass that shook through John like a giant’s heartbeat. The lyrics to whatever song was booming were practically impossible to distinguish but that didn’t seem to stop anyone.

Between the flashing lights and the fog machines, John could only slightly make out the moving, leather-clad bodies. There seemed no end to them. Black and silver flashed just as often as hot, bright colours over sweat slicked skin and mussed up makeup. John felt himself start to grin.

Ian spotted the look and clapped a leather, gloved hand to his shoulder. “See? Told you that you’d enjoy it. Come on, Watson, time to dance!”

Teresa slipped past both of them, diving right into the crowd. She kept her bright blue shadowed eyes locked on Ian. “Coming, Mister Ian?” she purred out to him, lights flashing over her dark skin.

A low whistle came from John. Ian gave a short laugh, looking puffed up and pleased with himself. “Hey, man, she’s got a sister,” he commented with a wink before heading over and calling out, “Coming, Miss Donovan.”

John watched them both for a few seconds before they disappeared. It was then that he realised that he was standing in front of a throbbing crowd, clenching his fists rhythmically, the spiked bracelets on his wrists moving with every tense of his muscle. John dove into the dancing mob with glee.

Earlier, when Ian had wrongly claimed Teresa to be the hip-hop dancer, John had happily steered him away from the topic. Not that he was ashamed or anything, but John wasn’t one to bring up his dance history.

It had started simple enough - jazz classes with Harry when they were growing up, a simple way for his mother to get rid of them for a few hours. Harry had enjoyed it but never continued on with it. John, on the other hand, had loved it. He’d always been short, had accepted that fact right around secondary school, when the rest of the boys were shooting up head and shoulders above him. But none of that mattered in dance. Sure, it made partners a bit harder, but John had a much easier time keeping his limbs in control that the rest of the lanky teenagers.

After jazz, he’d tried a bit of salsa and had really enjoyed swing but ended up falling for hip-hop. John was fast on his feet and had been told that his balance was superb. He’d worn his well-used pair of Converse high-tops that he used just for dancing with Ian’s green and black striped jeans thrown on.

In the middle of the crowd, bodies moving around him, and the bass pumping through his feet, John closed his eyes and started to dance. He’d been to other nightclubs before and could usually go all out but this didn’t seem like the bunch to try his normal moves on.

It took only a few minutes before sweat was dripping down his face, people pushing against him on all sides. John felt like he was made of water and the pounding beat and, _god_ , he felt _alive_. His shirt clung to him, damp and heavy. His feet never stopped moving and he pressed back against anyone who pressed against him.

Over the next hour, different people sidled up to John, nervous smiles on their lips. A few girls and even a bloke. He pulled them all closer, grinning. After a song or two, however, they’d slide away, joining the other dances that seemed to have their eyes on him.

When John finally emerged from the crowd, he was completely soaked with a wide grin on his face. He stumbled over to the bar tucked in the back. His head was already buzzing from dancing so he ordered simple water. Maybe later, he could convince Ian to buy him something.

John finished the water in a few gulps and accepted a refill. As the glass was whisked away, he rolled his neck, looking around. There were people at the bar with him, calming down, and others against the walls, getting their breath back or shoving their tongues down someone’s throat. John could make out Ian and Teresa lounging on the side, people watching.

Picking up the refilled glass of water, John gazed across the dancing crowd. He could only make out some people out of the mass, those with the brightest colours or craziest hair. The drink was just touching John’s lips when he spotted him, right in the middle of the crowd, easy to spot because of his height.

Pale skin that reflected the throbbing lights, curls that were shaved on the left side. John put down his glass and moved back into the dancers, making his way farther in. It was a bit harder than just moving freely as he had earlier, but he eventually reached the tall figure in the middle.

Sherlock was shiny with sweat, occasionally running a hand over his forehead to keep the moisture from his eyes. He kept those open, watching those around him. John spotted the red stud under Sherlock’s lower lip, confirming that it was indeed the same boy from the café.

He was dressed a tad simpler, though that made sense. No one wants to dance in too many clothes or risk losing expensive accessories while moving about so much. Just simple, black leather trousers tucked into the same biker boots as before, a plain heavy belt, and another vest, but with an album cover for the Sex Pistols. Around Sherlock’s neck was a loose tie, which John just wanted to grab and use to drag the younger boy away with.

Not sparing a moment to think, John danced right up to Sherlock, hips and feet moving.

“Hello again,” he greeted with a cheeky smile.

Silver eyes raked over him, calculating for a few moments before recognition dawned in them. John saw Sherlock’s lips move, mouthing his name, though he couldn’t hear it over the noise. Suddenly, there was a hand around his wrist, dodging the spiked bracelets, and he was being dragged through the crowd. There were a few rude words that followed them but Sherlock ignored everyone as he pulled John to a halt against the walls.

“That’s one way to say hello,” John muttered in a daze, still grinning.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked without a preamble.

John raised his eyebrows, smile dropping away, thrown off by the question. “Er, what? I’m here to dance, same as everyone. Well, I assume.”

“Yes, obviously you’re a dancer, can be nothing else given the state of your shoes and the ease at which you moved. But you gave no signs before that you were in any way punk, nor do you now actually, those are obviously not your clothes.”

“Hold on, how-”

“Shirt doesn’t fit you right because it’s been worn a lot by someone else; someone with breasts going by the way it’s stretched. The trousers are too long on you; bunched at your shoes and your belt is tightened quite a lot – no one buys those kinds of trousers if they don’t fit. Your hair is, or rather was, spiked but there’s no dyed colour in it or any signs of ‘rebellious’ haircuts, unlike most everyone in here. You also only have only wristbands on, another borrowed object, probably from the owner of the shirt, going by its wear, with no piercings to speak off. In conclusion, you do not usually come to places like this, or dress in this sort of style, yet here you are. Why?”

Sherlock stared at John, waiting for an answer. John could only stare back, working to pick his jaw up from the floor. He finally gave a little cough and tried to speak. “You… You could tell all that just by looking at me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Funny, I’m looking at you and can’t see all those sorts of things.”

“That is because, like everyone, you see but do not observe. You are also avoiding my question.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I’m curious,” Sherlock admitted with his head cocked a touch to the side.

John saw the truth in that. “My friend talked me into coming out tonight,” he explained, shrugging. “I enjoy dancing, as I’ve said.”

Sherlock huffed. “Dull.”

“Pardon?”

“Your excuse is dull.”

“Well, sorry for that. Should I have included how I battled off sharks with lasers on their heads or something like that?” John giggled.

Sherlock paused for a moment, eyes narrowed. He eventually murmured, “That’s not how people usually respond.”

“How do they usually respond to you detailing them out like that, then?”

“‘Piss off!’”

John threw his head back, laughing. He caught a glance of Sherlock’s lips twitching up.

“Oh!” He suddenly remembered. “You forgot this when you ran out before.”

Pulling out his wallet, John handed Sherlock’s change to him, enjoying the bewildered look on the punk’s face.

“Seven pounds, 80 pence,” Sherlock stated.

“Yeah, the change for your coffee before.”

Silver eyes stared him down as long fingers ran over the coins. “You kept seven pounds and 80 pence on you, in the very off chance that you would possibly see me again, even though you obviously could have used the money.”

“How-”

“You’re borrowing clothes at a club you would not usually go to and are the only worker in a café that probably does not pay enough.”

John found himself smiling again. “Amazing.”

Sherlock was staring at the change. “You didn’t charge me for the dessert.”

“I told you that it was on the house.”

Very slowly, the taller boy looked up, a smile creeping across his face. He shoved his hand into a pocket, putting the money away. “Would you like to dance?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

John experienced being pulled along by Sherlock once again and found that it was splendid actually. It sent his heart thumping just as heavily as the bass did. They worked their way into the crowd, Sherlock not looking back until reaching a desired spot. Then, he spun around and locked eyes with John.

The swaying bodies pushed them together and held them there. John tried to step back, thinking that it was a bit rude to assume that Sherlock was okay with it, but long fingers laced through his belt loops and tugged him back, bodies flush.

“Where are you going?” John read more than heard Sherlock ask.

He gave a short chuckle. “Insane, I imagine.”

Sherlock pressed closer to him and John felt the vibration of his baritone. “Brilliant.”

The music pumped through them, a steady beat that made their hips pop and sway and their arms clutch at each other. Sherlock’s right leg twisted around John’s left, slotting their hips together. It produced a growl from the taller boy that ran through John’s chest. Long fingers dug into his shoulder and traced fire down his arm.

It seemed to John like he had transported to some strange planet. The lights around him struck through the fog, lighting up Sherlock’s skin. He looked like a kaleidoscope creature made of shadows and angles and, _god_ , his eyes were absolutely _piercing_.

 _I don’t even know him, really_ , John couldn’t help but think. _I’ve barely said more than a hundred words to him and yet..._

Sherlock pressed his damp forehead against John’s, eyes half-lidded but still as intense. They stripped him, not just of clothes but seemed to reach right down and really see him and, _Christ_ , how was it possible to drown like this for someone he’d only just met?

John had been with blokes before – never more than quick handjobs and a few blowjobs. He was an open-minded uni student who enjoyed giving and receiving pleasure. But none of that made it any less startling when he felt Sherlock getting hard, pressed against his hipbone.

Not that John was in a better position. If they kept it up, Ian might not be getting his trousers back.

Sherlock’s forehead was no longer against his, having slipped down, resting near John’s ear. He could make out the short gasps and starts of curses, promptly bitten back. This put Sherlock’s ear in John’s line of sight. Not sparing a thought, he leaned forward and nipped it a tad roughly.

At the unexpected additional contact, Sherlock’s body rocked and John tightened his grip on those narrow hips. The shorter student couldn’t help but smile and swept his tongue up the taller boy’s ear. John rather enjoyed hearing his own name gasped out.

Leaning back, Sherlock’s eyes met his again. Ian definitely wasn’t getting his trousers back because the dark-haired boy before him looked positively _hungry_. Without hesitation, John reached up and pulled on Sherlock’s loose tie, bringing the taller boy’s mouth down to his. If he had been engulfed in fire before, John was sure he was being doused in lava now.

Sherlock swirled his tongue into John’s mouth, his hands practically lifting the shorter young man. John sucked on his tongue, drawing what he swore was a whimper from the silver-eyed punk.

“Do that again,” John gasped, pulling away.

“Make me,” came the ragged reply. John more than happily took that challenge.

His own tongue shot between those damned lips and a moan coursed through him as he felt the warm metal of the piercing rub against the underside. It contrasted the cool touch of the stud against his chin. Sherlock’s tongue wrestled with his as they shared breath, standing nearly still in the center of the moving mob.

John withdrew from Sherlock’s practically addictive mouth, nipping on his full lower lip and holding the stud between his teeth for a few seconds. Sherlock’s chest was heaving but his eyes were damn near glowing.

Suddenly, someone behind Sherlock shoved him harder than normal, pushing him against John who would have crashed to the floor if the line of bodies behind him and Sherlock’s sudden death grip hadn’t kept him up. All he could think was how mere seconds ago he had had a hold on Sherlock’s piercing and if that shove had come any sooner, he probably would have ripped it out.

Judging by Sherlock’s face, he was thinking along the same lines. “Come on,” he breathed in John’s ear, steadying him. “I know somewhere more private.”

They maneuvered through the dancers, who were toned down a bit since earlier as it got closer and closer to dawn. It was surprisingly easy to find a mostly empty hallway where Sherlock quickly shoved John up against the wall. Their mouths were against the other before either could draw a full breath.

John pushed his hands up into dark curls, the shaved side tickling his palm. He pressed Sherlock’s head closer, earning a groan from the punk. Sherlock’s hands were peeling up John’s Crass shirt and running long fingers up his front and then down his back, earning surprised gasps from the fair-haired boy that Sherlock gladly swallowed down.

Their hips bucked together, forcing them apart so as in to draw in stuttering breaths. John twisted his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back and, _Christ_ , his neck was gorgeous. He latched onto it, nipping and kissing the skin. He felt the taller boy practically melt against him. He ran his tongue over the bobbing Adam’s apple and Sherlock shuddered.

“John!” he choked out. In response, John moved down to the junction of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, intent on leaving bruises on that pale skin. He bit down, earning a half curse, and then blew and licked the tormented spot. Sherlock’s hand fisted into his hair, caught between pushing John down harder and pulling him away. A smile spread on John’s lips, pressing against a sharp collarbone.

Suddenly, Sherlock tore John’s head back and slammed him against the wall. John let out a shocked yelp at the movement but the noise changed to a moan as Sherlock leaned down into a rough kiss. Long fingers latched onto John’s wrists and pulled them above his head.

Sherlock mirrored John’s previous moves, licking a long line from collarbone and over the Adam’s apple. A strangled gasp came from John and he pressed forward, but Sherlock was surprisingly strong and kept him in place.

Teeth bit down on John’s shoulder and he cried out Sherlock’s name. The punk before him stopped and slowly looked up with an absolutely deadly smirk.

“Do that again,” he growled out.

“Make me,” John grinned back.

There was a vibrating feeling running through John’s leg. Both young men stopped, confused. Sherlock slowly released John’s wrists so that he could pull his phone out. Ian’s name flashed across the screen and John swore that he was going to kill his friend.

Sherlock took a step back, calming down. John sighed. “Sorry, it’s Ian. Probably fallen in a ditch or something.”

The punk simply waved a hand in response and then began digging in his pockets. A few moments later, he pulled out a box of fags and tapped one from the box. John was pleasantly distracted by how swollen Sherlock’s lips were and how his cheeks still held a red tinge. He snapped out of it and put the phone to his ear. “Ian?”

“Sorry, John, it’s Teresa,” came the voice in the phone. “Ian’s completely sloshed.” John heard a drunken yell from his friend. “I’m going to try to take him home but he’s a touch heavy and doesn’t want to leave quite yet…”

“Yeah, Teresa, I’ll come help. Be there in a mo’.” John hung up with a long sigh. He looked up to Sherlock, who was patting his pockets, trying to figure out where his lighter had got to. “Sorry about this. My friend’s-”

“Is overly drunk and in need of help getting home, yes,” Sherlock quickly said. He wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. “Wonderful meeting you again, John. Good night.” Giving up on the presence of his lighter, Sherlock turned away, leaving a momentarily shocked John.

“Oi, hold on!” he called.

Sherlock stopped and turned back a little, face blank. John reached up and grabbed the tie again, bringing Sherlock closer. He plucked the fag from the punk’s lips and pulled him down into a kiss that was chaste compared to their snogging a few moments before. Hands slipped into his back pockets, bringing them closer for a second before Sherlock released him.

“Stop by the café sometime, yeah?” he asked with a wink when they parted. He placed the cigarette back between Sherlock’s lips, which were twitched up into a smile. John took a step back and let the tie go. They watched each other for a few moments before John finally turned away, off to find Ian and possibly kill him.

He made sure to think about textbooks and the old cabbage smell of his grandmother’s house and anything else that would help with his persistent erection. It was a tad difficult to walk but John tried to force the blood back up into the rest of his body.

Teresa was near the front door, a half conscious Ian against her shoulder. Both of them had their coats on - John was definitely buying her a gift or something because the girl was a saint - and Teresa handed his over. He quickly donned it and then slung Ian’s other arm over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s take this git home.”

“Joooohnn!” Ian slurred in his ear, a wide grin on his face. “Where you been at to all n’ght then! Find you a nice backend to grab, then, did ya!”

“Shut it, you heavy bastard. You’re getting your beer breath all over me!” John shoved Ian’s face away. The idiot only laughed harder.

It took a few minutes to find a taxi that would take them. They had to convince the driver that, no, Ian was not going to vomit and, yes, if he did they would pay for it. They tossed Ian down on the seat and clambered in after him.

“So, who’d you get to snog?” Teresa asked John once she’d given the address and the taxi started moving.

“W-what?” John sputtered out.

Teresa laughed. “I’m not an idiot, John. Your hair is a wreck, you’re still blushing, and when you answered the phone, you all but growled at me. Sounded like I interrupted something.” There was a teasing smile on her face and John was reminded why he actually liked this girlfriend, unlike all the rest Ian had brought home. “Not to mention,” she continued bluntly, “whatever anti-erection methods you were using didn’t completely work.”

John blushed to his hairline, shifting in his seat. Teresa laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t worry about it. Ian’s been worse in more public places. Talk about awkward.”

He shyly grinned, running a hand through his hair that Sherlock had gotten a hold of. “It was-” he coughed. “His name’s Sherlock and about two weeks ago he-”

“Hold on,” Teresa stopped him, joking air disappearing. Her eyebrows were raised and jaw had dropped a few inches. “Sherlock? As in _Sherlock Holmes_? That Sherlock?”

John gave a hesitant laugh. He hadn’t really expected that sort of response, having near really found out how open-minded Teresa was. “Uh, yeah. Tall, lanky, dark-haired bloke, piercing under his lip.”

“You snogged Sherlock Holmes?”

John’s hands twisted together and his tongue nervously touched his lips. “Uh, well, yeah. Damn good snog, actually.”

Teresa was looking at him like he’d just announced his plan to kill the Queen and how he was going to take out half of London while doing it. She blinked a few times, letting the information process. “Okay, look, John,” she started slowly. “I’m going to say this for your own good, but you need to stay away from him.”

“Sorry, what?”

“He’s not good, John. Trust me, my sister’s known him a while. He’s the wrong sort of guy to be around, let alone to have a snog with in a club.”

“He’s seemed fine to me,” John retorted, surprisingly defensive. Despite knowing Teresa for a few months now and only having met Sherlock twice, he really didn’t like hearing her tell him to stay away from the dark-haired boy.

“John, he’s a freak. He does this thing where he just looks at you-”

“And knows stuff about you, yeah, he did it on me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t find that weird?”

John shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “No. He explained how he got to the conclusions. I thought it was brilliant actually.”

Teresa sat back, still looking at him in disbelief. “Really, John, trust me on this one. Don’t go near Sherlock Holmes.”

They stared each other down, on the edge of a row, waiting for the other to crack first.

Ian suddenly broke the silence by explaining that he desperately needed a smoke and was willing to kill a man, many men actually, just for one fag. John kicked him, not wanting to get booted into the street.

Teresa’s lips were pursed but she didn’t speak. John didn’t quite know what to say and didn’t feel up to getting into anymore of a ruck in the back of a taxi. So, he just quietly sat back and looked out the window, thinking about dark curls and silver eyes.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, ignoring Ian’s light singing of “Disco Inferno.” When they pulled up in front of their flat, Teresa searched hers and Ian’s pockets for change. She came away with some notes but just short of the fare. “John, have you got anything?”

John searched his pockets, knowing they were empty. “Sorry, Teresa, but I-”

His hand stopped on a note and some coins in his back pocket. He pulled them out in awe. “Actually, I’ve got seven pounds, 80 pence.”

“Perfect.” She snatched it out of his hands and passed it onto the driver.

John sat in shock for a moment before clambering out of the taxi. Teresa was hauling out Ian, who was aware enough to try to clamber to his feet. John put his hand into his back pocket again and came away with a small, white card. As he stood on the sidewalk, he couldn’t help but tip his head back and laugh.

The card in his hand held simply a scrawled number and was signed SH.

His phone was out moments later and John sent a quick text to the number.

_You’re sort of brilliant, you know that? – JW_

It took less than thirty seconds for his mobile to chime back.

_Think of it as payment for my coffee when I next stop in. – SH_

John grinned at the screen before going to help Teresa with her unconscious boyfriend.


	3. Black And Blue, Drops Of Red All Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologize enough about the delay in posting. I've reached the point in the story where I usually give up on it, but your fabulous comments have helped me beat through an absolutely crippling bout of writer's block. Now that I've crawled over this particular mountain, I'll be updating faster, since I've got some ideas for the story now. Once again, I'm very sorry for taking so long.
> 
> This chapter was Beta'd by the fabulous Pawtal because she's just downright glamourous that way. <3
> 
> Y'all can find me on Tumblr under the same username. If you have any questions or just want to chat, drop something in my Ask box - it's always open!
> 
> Final note, I'm 'Murican and despite enough research that made me want to tear my face off, I'm not sure how medical school and stuff works in Britain. If anyone here knows and would like to educate me, please go right ahead! You're all wonderful <3
> 
> EDIT: Tiny thing but multiple people pointed out that there are in fact no raccoons in London, so that small little detail has been changed. Derp.

Teresa dumped Ian on their much-abused couch and gently covered him with a blanket. John kicked his shoes off by the door, feeling the tense silence from before start to build again.

“Look, John-”

He shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. Teresa stopped and crossed her arms, her lips thin. Ian snored.

“Thanks for the warning, Teresa, really.” John calmly met her stare. “I’ll watch out for Sherlock but I don’t really think I’ll be seeing him again.”

Her eyebrow cocked up. “Really?”

John shrugged. “I’ve met him twice and didn’t do that much talking.” They both smirked. “I’m not going to skip into the sunset with this bloke – I barely know him.”

Teresa’s shoulders sagged a little, though she kept her arms folded across her chest. “I get it, John. Just be careful. He’s a freak that only knows one trick and hurts anyone around him. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

John’s hands twitched into fists in his pockets and he failed at keeping the anger from darkening his face. “Alright. Well,” he coughed, “thanks for letting me borrow your shirt and all. I’ll return it after I wash it and-”

Not buying his bad lying, Teresa clipped past him to the door. “Keep it; I’ve got more. Good night, John.”

“Yeah, thanks. Night.”

The door shut with a purposeful slam, just hard enough to mean something. Ian twitched in his sleep, and then continued snoring. John left him there and headed to his room to try to study. He rubbed his hands over his face, groaning and somehow just knowing that he was going to regret pissing Teresa Donovan off.

It was thankfully a Sunday, so he didn’t have to worry about struggling to stay awake in a class, though he did have an early shift at the café. With textbooks and notes out, John set about getting ready for his exams, deciding that he wasn’t going to sleep that night. It was just after two in the morning and he would only have to wake up in a handful of hours anyway.

John took out the lecture papers he was supposed to be reviewing and stared at them for about ten minutes before realizing he hadn’t read a single word. He set it down and picked up his math textbook. The numbers and letters blended together until he was forced to snap the book closed. He grabbed another paper.

Apparently, his mind decided that it did not in fact want to study.

It wanted to focus on his encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

The anatomy skeleton he was trying to memorize wasn’t helping. It just reminded him of gorgeous bone structure wrapped in smooth, pale skin. Full lips against his own with a devilish tongue shoved into his mouth as long fingers scratched up his sides.

John walked around the flat for a while after that, trying to calm down. He knocked Ian off the couch and shoved him towards his bedroom. The taller blond muttered something about tigers before collapsing into his own bed. John stepped around his mess and closed the bedroom door behind him.

A cup of tea later, John returned to his room, intent on studying. 

_“Do that again.”_

_“Make me.”_

“Christ,” John muttered angrily to himself, tossing another notebook away. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, as if trying to wash the thought away. A shower suddenly sounded like a brilliant idea. That should wake him up and snap him out of the distracting thoughts he was circling around. He stripped out of the clubbing clothes and calmly walked to the bathroom, noting Ian’s snores as he passed his bedroom.

John stepped under the shower spray and cursed his way to warmer water, actually feeling the dried sweat come off. His muscles relaxed under the heat and he dropped his head forward with a groan of relief. How had his shoulders become so tense?

Probably right around when Sherlock had slammed them up against a wall with a growl and hungry eyes.

“Shit,” John hissed out. He shoved the thought away and grabbed his shampoo, working it into his skull.

The action did nothing except remind him of long fingers pinning his hands above his head in a tight grip.

“Christ!” John shouted, nearly ripping a chunk of his hair out. This was all Ian’s fault that he was so bloody sexually frustrated.

If his drunken idiot of a flatmate hadn’t decided to get so royally sloshed right when he had, John was rather certain that the night would have found him on his knees, making that gorgeous baritone gasp out his name.

John’s head connected with the tile wall of the shower, his eyes closed as soap streamed down. As he moved to rinse his hair, hot water and bubbles flowed down his neck and shoulders. He drew in a small breath; the spot where Sherlock had bitten down on his shoulder actually sort of stung and if he kept up his current train of thought, John was going to need to immediately switch the water to icy.

 _Or_ , he thought, _I could have a decent bloody wank so that I can bloody well focus._ And where was the harm? It wasn’t as if everyone was going to know and talk – Oh did you hear that John Watson tossed one off in the shower over Sherlock Holmes? Well can you blame him, that punk’s got absolutely gorgeous lips and, _Christ_ , his cheekbones!

 _And his arse_ , John mentally added. Not that he’d gotten to grab it, though he was cursing himself for that. No, he’d been too preoccupied with the wet tongue that had dragged up his neck and the hips that had rocked against him.

John’s hand was on his cock in a heartbeat and he replayed the sensation of Sherlock’s teeth biting down on his shoulder and it was all over.

A few minutes later, once he had collected his senses enough to wash the rest of the shampoo out, John exited the shower and toweled his hair, feeling as if a weight was off his shoulders. Stomach rumbling, he headed into the kitchen.

Soon, he had bacon frying up, enjoying the sizzling sounds and anticipating Ian’s reaction. He chopped up some tomatoes and slices of cheese and threw them into the mess of scrambled eyes he made up in another pan. When finished, he pushed half onto his plate and dumped the rest in a bowl for his friend. Christ knew that the guy was terrible while hung over.

Smiling, John went and knocked twice on Ian’s door, bowl in hand.

“Oi, Ian! Got some food for ya!”

There was a loud _THUNK_ against the door, shocking John into taking a step back. He tried to identify what Ian had thrown, but couldn’t place the noise. There wasn’t even the sound of when it fell to the floor.

“Ian, did you just toss a fucking knife into the door?”

“Fuck off, John,” came the grumbled cry. “I’m dying.”

John shook off the knife suspicion and chuckled. “But I’ve got such a grand bowl of eggs and bacon for you, extra greasy!”

A groan sounded and something else hit the door. John could identify that as probably a shoe. He worried that Ian was going to hurl – it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had that reaction to the prospect of very greasy food – but a moment later, he heard Ian hit the floor, rolling out of bed. A few curses and crashes as he kicked things around led to the door being opened.

Ian glared at him with crazy hair, still in his outfit from before, minus one shoe. He grabbed the bowl from John and narrowed his eyes at the shorter blonde’s grin. 

“I’ll kill you,” he whispered as he slipped back into his room.

“Shove it. You know I’m your best mate.”

Something that suspiciously sounded like a hiss came from Ian before he closed the door.

John turned, giggling to himself. He ate his breakfast and checked his email. When his alarm went off, he had managed an hour of studying. He quickly dressed and left as Ian started blasting “A Fifth of Beethoven.”

\---

A yawn made him crack his jaw open as he walked. He’d pulled all-nighters before, had long ago realised that he had to get used to them since he was training to be a doctor and all, and knew just the right coffee to make for himself. Perhaps he should add an extra shot in it though, just to be safe.

As he walked, John couldn’t help but notice all the whispered conversations around him. Not that that was anything new; gossip was an ever-present creature on campus. What caught his attention were the worried looks and gasps of horror. He looked around, spotting sad shaking heads and a few disbelieving eyes.

Above it all, he realised that someone was calling his name.

John turned just in time to feel someone wrap arms around him in a tight hug, a face cozying right up into his jumper-clad chest.

“Wha- Oh! Hello, Clara!” he exclaimed, recognising just who had nearly tackled him.

“John! Christ, I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks, you arse! Do I really have to track you down to see you?”

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around the small girl and squeezing for a few moments before letting her go. Big brown eyes crinkled as she smiled up at him.

“I’m sorry, love, been busy and all.”

“Are you too busy to come next Saturday to my gig? Bill just got a new guitar that sounds absolutely wicked and we’ve got a new song written.”

John pretended to consider it. “Cor, I’ve got to decide between staying in and studying like a hermit or going to your show.”

“Oh, don’t be such a tease, John! Please say you’ll come!” Puppy dog eyes blinked up at him, making her look much closer to five than her actual twenty years.

He chuckled and slid an arm around her shoulders, dodging her long, dark red braid. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, I promise.”

John was squeezed into another delighted hug and when Clara pulled back, she kept an arm thrown across his waist and he kept one around her shoulders. She started walking in the direction he had been headed earlier, tugging him along.

“So, where you headed off to, then?”

“Work. I got that job at The Last Drop café, near the edge of campus.”

Clara grinned. “So _now_ I’ve got a place where I can track you down when you avoid me! Oh, this is fantastic!”

“It’s not just you; I avoid all the ginger midgets,” John informed with the upmost seriousness.

She playfully shoved him. “I am not a midget!”

“You’re shorter than me, love! You’ve got to admit, you are a bit on the hobbit side.” He snickered and danced away from her attempt at punching him in the ribs.

Clara huffed. “Just you watch, John Watson. I’m going to grow six feet tall and then I’ll be taller than you and I’ll get to look down at you!”

He linked arms with her and continued walking them towards the café. “You’ll tower over all of us, Clara, you will.”

They made their way through the campus, exchanging pleasant little stories about classes and friends. John left out his encounter with a certain silver-eyed punk.

The bell above the door jingled as they entered The Last Drop. Mrs Hudson poked her head out from the door leading to the ovens.

“Oh, John! There you are, dear!” She stepped forward, wiping floured hands on her apron. “And who’s this, then? My goodness, aren’t you a lovely young lady? Would you fancy a cup of tea?”

Clara gave a dazzling smile and reached a hand forward in greeting. “Clara. Clara Riley at your service, ma’am, and may I just say that your café is just adorable!”

Mrs Hudson proceeded to fawn over Clara from there as John slipped his own apron on. He knew his ginger friend was a charmer and was not surprised when she managed to get a free cup of tea and a couple biscuits.

“John, your friend is a sweetheart!” his boss proclaimed as Clara went to find a seat. She pulled a textbook from her purse and nibbled on her snack. Mrs Hudson winked at him. “She is just darling.”

He laughed softly, going to the register as a customer walked up. John took the bloke’s order and began making it, turning back to Mrs Hudson in a low voice. “Bats for the other team, Mrs H. She’s just my friend.”

“Does she?” the older woman asked with a cheeky grin. “Well, Mrs Turner, the owner of that little flower shop a block over, has got a niece that fancies girls. I could introduce them; they’re both lovely young ladies.”

“Mrs Hudson, you don’t need to play matchmaker,” he laughed. John handed the completed hazelnut latte to the customer with a smile.

“Oh hush. I had quite a knack for it when I was younger, and I still know a thing or two!”

He didn’t say anything in reply, just smiled and set about getting the next customer’s tea ready. Once that was handed off, John quickly gulped down a cup of black coffee and felt himself start to wake up a bit.

The door chimed and two girls came in, looking worried and talking frantically. They moved up to the register, barely looking at John.

“It couldn’t have honestly exploded! Victor had to be exaggerating. They wouldn’t sell computers if they just up and did that!”

“I’m telling you, Jeanette, it really exploded! Vic was one of the students who found Professor Patterson – saw the damage himself! Showed me a picture on his phone. It was terrible. The police have been warning everyone in our dorm to stay off our computers.”

“Until how long? I’ve got a paper I’ve got to write up for class and if I don’t get it done, I might as well die.”

One girl barely looked at John. “Two hot chocolates,” she ordered before turning back to her friend. “Don’t say something like that! The poor professor! He was probably still alive for a little while…”

John stood a bit still, shamelessly eavesdropping. A death? What was going on? The girl looked at him again and he snapped out of it. “That’ll be £6.60.”

She absently paid him, still arguing. “That death was just a freak accident. I mean, maybe his computers just overheated or something.”

“I had Professor Patterson last semester in Business. His computer was brand new but he barely worked with it; hated them. He preferred to teach us out of the textbook. No way a barely used computer would just malfunction like that.”

“Cor, Emma, that’s just frightening, that is. Someone dying that way, right here on campus!”

John handed the girls their drinks and they quickly left. Clara walked up to the register, an eyebrow raised. 

“You hear anything about a death on the campus?” he asked her.

Clara shrugged. “That business professor’s computer exploded or something. Why?”

“Exploded? Like actually exploded?”

“What do you think I mean?” Clara smirked.

“That’s weird, is all. When did this happen?”

“Last night, apparently. Heard he was barely recognizable when they found him.”

“It’s a bit worrying how you can say that with such a straight face.”

“People die everyday, John. It’s kind of what people _do_.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are incredibly morbid for such small person.”

She smiled at him. “Not morbid – realistic. It’s true, you know it is.”

A sigh vibrated through him. “I know. It’s just a bit sad, you know? Especially since we don’t exactly have that many campus deaths.”

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Hudson asked. Clara immediately started filling her in. John began washing the dishes in the small sink. He heard the small gasps as the news of death passed. “How terrible… I knew Jeffery. He would come in here before his lectures sometimes. Ordered the same drink every time. What a terrible way to go.” She shook her head sadly and moved to the back room to take the cakes out of the oven.

The bell jingled from the front door and John looked up, and then mentally cursed at himself for being hopeful. “One mo’,” he called out to the girl who walked up to the counter.

“I got this, John.” Clara slipped behind the register and smiled at the student. “What can I get you?”

John watched with a raised eyebrow as Clara easily took the order and worked the cash register. He dried his hands and made the order while his red-haired friend lounged.

“You know, we’re actually looking to hire,” he told her, handing the drink off. She gave it to the customer with a flirty smile.

“You and me working together in a café? Sounds a bit silly.”

He bumped hips with her and laughed. “I think it’d be brilliant actually. Mrs Hudson adores you; you’d get a lot of free biscuits out of it.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me too much, John,” she giggled.

The door sounded again and John looked around. His face fell once more. He could feel Clara’s smirk.

After helping the customer out, he turned to her.

“Okay, fess up. Who you waiting for?”

“A boy named Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson excitedly put in, popping up as if summoned.

“A bloke! What’s he like, John?” Clara asked excitedly. Both of the women’s eyes were lit up.

He chuckled a tad nervously, rubbing his neck. “He’s just a bloke I met twice-”

“You met him again?” his boss gasped, positively aglow with curiosity.

The jingle of the entrance sounded. He turned away to take the customer’s order.

When he turned back, Mrs. Hudson had backed off into the oven room, though John could see her keeping an ear out. Clara was calmly cleaning her nails. She glanced in his direction with a small lift of her lips. He leaned against the counter next to her with a sigh and told her about when Sherlock first walked into the café.

“And the second time you saw him?”

John looked to where Mrs Hudson was now standing near the register, smirking ever so slightly. A slight blush crept up his face.

“Ian took me out to a club last night with his girlfriend. I saw Sherlock on the dance floor and, well, we, uh, danced.” Her eyebrows waggled and he bumped shoulders with her. “Not like that, you little git,” he chuckled, then added quietly, “Not quite.”

Clara grinned widely. “Did either of you say anything about meeting up again?”

John shrugged. “He mentioned something about stopping by the café.”

“Ah, so that explains your obsession with watching the door.”

“Oi, shut it, I am not.”

“John, you jump every time that little bell jingles.”

“I do not.”

As if on cue, the door opened. John kept himself very still and raised an eyebrow at Clara. She jokingly glared at him as he slowly turned around.

The rest of the day passed easily and Mrs. Hudson also voiced her thoughts on hiring Clara. She accepted with glee and John started showing her how to make a basic frappuccino.

\-- 

Life went on. After two days, John stopped jumping when the door chimed. After a week, he stopped making sure that they had a spare, clean cup. Clara quickly learned how to make most of their beverages and set up a schedule with Mrs Hudson for work hours.

John didn’t let himself dwell on why Sherlock had never showed up. Perhaps he had forgotten or didn’t feel like actually seeing John again or maybe even died. It was a very real reminder that John didn’t actually know a thing about the other boy and that he should just put the entire thing out of his head.

With exams and work and keeping up with the small social life he possessed, John found it surprisingly difficult to shove the silver-eyed boy to the corner of his mind. But he managed. He was a Watson and therefore stubborn and was not about to let one punk completely dominate his head.

“John?”

He looked over to his ginger friend. She was leaning against the front counter, hair in a simple long ponytail. There were bags under her eyes that matched his own and every other student. Exams started on Monday and the entire campus was losing sleep.

“You’re still coming to the show tomorrow?” Clara continued, biting at her lip.

“Is it tomorrow? Christ, the time has gone fast. Yeah, I can still go. Text me the address so I don’t end up at the wrong place again.”

Clara giggled. “Is Ian coming?”

“Nah. He just took off last night for a hunting trip with his dad; said he’d be back in time for his first exam on Tuesday.”

Clara paused, a bit puzzled. “I thought his dad was dead.”

John raised an eyebrow and drew out a long, “No. Unless he’s going on the trips with his dad’s ghost. He goes every few weeks – bonding time or something, I don’t know.”

His friend looked completely confused now. “I remember him telling me his dad was dead though, I could have sworn…”

“Was he drunk?”

“Extremely.”

“Never trust anything Ian says while drunk,” John warned, grinning. “Most people tell the truth while sloshed but that wanker spins the weirdest tales, I swear.”

“And he gets very good at darts,” Clara laughed. “I’ve never seen someone get _better_ at darts after four pints.”

“What are you two giggling about now?” Mrs Hudson asked, coming from the back room with a plate of sandwiches for them. They thanked her and tucked in, both already knowing that it was useless to try and turn down the food.

“Ian and how weird he is at times,” John simply explained. His flatmate had only come to the café a handful of times, claiming not to having the taste for coffee or tea.

Mrs Hudson stopped and pursed her lips. “I remember him. He worries me, that one. Going to get himself into some trouble, I can just feel it.”

“Sounds like Ian, alright,” John mumbled. He switched topics back to Clara. “But, yeah, I’ll definitely make it to your show. Save me a seat.”

“Of course.” Clara smiled and took a customer’s order for tea.

\---

John walked into the pub, the sounds and smells washing over him. He headed over to the bar and ordered a drink, trying to keep an eye out for Clara or Bill.

Of course, as soon as John brought his drink to his mouth, a large hand clamped down on his shoulder. He sputtered, trying to keep his entire beer from spilling down his shirt. 

“Johnny Boy!” Bill cried. “You made it!”

“Yeah, you wanker!” he coughed, setting his drink down. “Wouldn’t miss watching you making an arse out of yourself.”

“Shut it, short stuff!”

John laughed and let Bill move him to a table near the stage. Clara, Mike, and Freddie were up on the stage, getting set up. Freddie tuned his guitar while Clara helped Mike get the drums together. When she saw John, however, the small girl quickly ran over, jumped off the stage in a clean leap, and just about tackled John in a hug.

“You came!”

“Of course I did, love. Couldn’t forget with you bugging me about it every few minutes,” he teased.

She shoved him with a grin before hopping back on stage and set about getting her keyboard working. Bill followed her, clapping John on the back once more. He and Freddie played a few quick riffs on their guitars and Bill tested the mic.

“Hello, hello, Earthlings!” he cried. The pub-goers turned to the stage, a few recognizing the band. “I hope y’all are ready for some great music tonight!”

A few cheers sounded and soon, the group was playing. John sat back, sipping on his drink and enjoying watching his friends have fun.

After a handful of songs, the band took a break, bowing to the roar of applause they received. Bill downed a full bottle of water in a matter of seconds before jumping down the stage to the table where John sat.

“How’d it sound, Johnny Boy?”

“Absolutely brilliant, Bill, they loved it.”

“Of course they did! You sure you don’t want to join? We could always use a clarinet!”

“Oh shove off then!”

Bill moved away, chuckling. Clara plopped down in the seat next to him, gulping water.

“Well, that was fun!”

“You sounded great, Clara, really well done.”

“Aw, thanks, John.” She fanned herself with a piece of paper. “Christ, it’s hot in here.”

“Need to step out?”

“Yeah, I feel like I’m on fire.”

“Come on then.”

John led her to the back door of the pub, as the front was still somewhat full of people going in and out. They stepped out, the shock of the cold air refreshing. Clara gave a long sigh of relief and twisted her long hair up into a bun.

There were a few bins and a large skip in the alley but it was empty besides them, as far as John could see. He ignored the garbage smell, happy that it hadn’t moved onto the warmer weather yet, when the smell would be a bit unbearable.

“You’ve been quiet lately.” Clara stared at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “Everything all right?”

John shrugged. “Exams are killing me slowly. Ian’s been a bit more dickish lately, I don’t know why. Guess I’m a little tired is all.”

Clara looked sympathetic for a few moments before her expression turned puzzled. She looked around. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

There was a crash as a bin toppled over and someone gave a shout of frustration.

“Hello?” Clara called, starting to head to the source of the noise.

John cut her off, stepping in front of her. “Hold on. Be careful,” he murmured to her before turning towards the knocked over garbage bin. “Who’s there?”

Silence greeted him and John crept forward a bit, making sure to keep Clara behind him. “Who’s there?” he called again.

There was a soft moan of pain and Clara gripped his arm. “John, someone’s hurt.”

He continued creeping closer to whoever was there, moving around the bags of garbage.

Clara gasped behind him as they both caught sight of the body against the wall. Tall and lean, the person had half their face decorated with blood, their clothes torn and bloodstained, and the skin under it bruised and bleeding.

John rushed forward, forgetting to be cautious. He knelt next to the beaten man and grabbed his wrist. A steady heartbeat pulsed under his fingertips and John breathed a sigh of relief. He reached up and placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

Slowly, the figure raised his head and blinked silver eyes at him. John froze.

“Sherlock?” he breathed.

“You know him?” Clara asked, a bit horrified at the image before her.

“Yeah, the guy I told you about,” he explained quickly. “Hey, Sherlock. You awake? Can you say something for me?”

Sherlock groaned, tipping his head back and hitting it against the brick wall. John winced for him. Silver eyes looked him over, narrowed to the point that they were almost closed.

“John?” the punk asked.

“Yeah, it’s me, Sherlock. It’s John. Listen, come on, I’ve got to get you to hospital; you look like shit, mate.”

Sherlock was shaking his head before John finished talking. “Not hospital. Mycroft will find me.”

“Who’s Mycroft?” Clara asked. John shrugged.

“Look, alright, can you stand?”

“John, what are you doing?” Clara whispered.

“I’m helping him,” he replied with a little more force than he meant to. “Not just going to leave him here in some alley.”

“But-”

“Can you help me stand him up?”

Clara looked worried but she bent down and took hold of Sherlock’s arm. Together, they lifted him to his feet, while the taller boy hissed in pain. John let Sherlock lean on him, keeping an arm around his waist. He was too light, just bones and skin and bruises.

“Get him to the van. I’ll grab the keys from Bill.”

“Clara, you don’t have to. You’ve still got the rest of the show to do.”

“Nonsense. Bill will understand.”

Clara ran back into the pub and John adjusted his hold on Sherlock.

“Hey, you still awake?”

“What are you doing?” came the muttered reply.

“I’m helping your skinny arse. What the hell happened to you?”

“Just a… misunderstanding.”

“What, with some thugs?”

“Four and I handled it.”

“Handled it, huh? Looking like you got run over by a truck is handling it?”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” he growled.

“Barely. They didn’t stab you, right? I’m not going to suddenly be holding up your corpse?”

“No, just the usual fists and feet and lead pipes.”

John nearly saw red. “Who the fuck are these bastards? Bill and Freddie won’t hesitate to help me if I ask them to kill ‘em and hide the bodies.”

Sherlock gave a deep chuckle and then winced. Definitely hurt ribs then. John hoped he didn’t have anything broken.

“No,” Sherlock said, “my ribs are just bruised, not broken, I can tell the difference.”

“How-”

“You have a very expressive face and this is not the first time this has happened.”

They reached Bill’s van and Sherlock leaned against it, his lips thin with pain.

Clara ran up, keys jingling in her hands. She pressed the button to unlock the car and climbed in.

“Come on then.” John opened the door to the first row of seats. Sherlock glared at the large step up. Without saying anything, John put an arm around his waist and started to hoist him up.

“I can do it,” Sherlock spat.

“Bull,” John said firmly. He stepped into the van and Sherlock stepped up with the added help. He flopped into the seat and made a noise of pain when his back touched the seat.

“Here.” John scooted to the end of the row and then patted his thigh. “Lay it down.”

Sherlock glared at him for a few moments before slowly laying down, his head resting on John’s leg. Clara dug around in the glove compartment and handed some napkins back to John before starting the car and driving. 

Sherlock curled his long legs up, his knees fitting on the seat. John slid his hand into Sherlock’s dark hair and felt the punk hum. He quietly laughed.

The glow of the streetlights flashed over Sherlock’s body and John watched him wince every time the van bounced. He gently started wiping the blood from Sherlock’s face.

“So, a misunderstanding, huh?”

Sherlock scowled and then sighed deeply. “The other day, I may have informed a group that their leader had a habit of cross-dressing and he apparently saw fit to send some unsavory characters after me.”

John glared into the back of Clara’s headrest, unconsciously tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hair.

“It may not have helped that I saw fit to announce that one of the pawns he had sent was a fan of incest and had been sleeping with his sister.”

Clara almost swerved off the road, spooked by John’s sudden roar of laughter.

“You did what?” he choked out. “You have no sense of self-preservation, do you?”

Sherlock looked just as startled as Clara by John’s laughter but quickly relaxed against his leg and smirked.

“I thought it would distract them so that I could find a way out but apparently they all knew and simply weren’t speaking about it.”

“That is so weird.” Clara shivered in her seat.

“I think you need to learn to keep your mouth shut sometimes,” John giggled, leaning down to look Sherlock in the eye. The punk just raised an eyebrow at him. “Not all the time, of course, but it’d probably be best to avoid getting beaten up by gangs.”

“I can take care of myself,” he spat, tensing.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” John smiled, not rising to the bait. “A little help sometimes is good though.” He continued dabbing the blood off of Sherlock’s forehead and cheeks. Sherlock closed his eyes and John felt him relax more, his breathing starting to even out.

“Hey, stay awake, Sherlock,” he said gently. “You can’t go to sleep just yet.”

“I don’t have a concussion, John,” he muttered back, eyes still closed.

“Yeah, well, let me see about that, okay? I can still take you to hospital.”

Sherlock huffed but opened his eyes.

“Here you go, John,” Clara announced ten quiet minutes later as they pulled up at his flat. “You need any help?”

“No, it’s fine. Thanks Clara, love. Get the van back to Bill and finish up playing. I’ll text you in the morning.”

She pursed her lips at him for a few moments before silently nodding.

Sherlock sat up slowly and John quickly jumped out of the van to help him out. The punk just glared but allowed himself to be nearly lifted from the vehicle, an arm thrown around John’s shoulders.

Clara gave a wave before driving off. John made sure he had a good grip on Sherlock’s waist before heading towards the flat.

“I’m on the second floor, sorry.”

“I can make it, John. I’m not a wilting flower.”

“No, but you have had your arse rather handed to you and are covered in bruises.”

They met the stairs and slowly started working their way up, Sherlock trying to keep his face blank and failing.

By the time they reached the top, most of Sherlock’s weight was pressed against John and he dragged the taller boy over to his door. Getting his keys out and unlocking the door with one hand was a practice John had long since mastered and within moments, they were stepping into the flat.

“Forgive the mess, Ian’s been a bit destructive lately.”

Sherlock didn’t even look around; his eyes were mostly closed and his feet were dragging.

“Come on, Sherlock. Can’t sleep just yet.”

John quickly led him to his room and guided Sherlock down on his bed. The punk looked up at him with glassy eyes, exhaustion radiating off of him.

“Okay, shirt off,” John instructed, kicking things out of the way and looking for the stethoscope he kept around somewhere. He unearthed the first aid kit from his closet and hurried back to Sherlock who had flopped over on the bed, nuzzling into the pillow.

“Sherlock, come on, sit up.” John pulled his friend up and worked on getting his shirt off. The black and white striped sleeves were safety-pinned to the red, sleeveless hooded shirt. There were rips along the sides and drops of dried blood. Sherlock hissed as he lifted his arms and wiggled out of it.

John could only stare as the fabric came off. Sherlock was lean in an unhealthy way – his ribs were visible and his stomach curved in too far. His arms were surprisingly toned, suggesting at a strength that most wouldn’t guess at. But his wrist bones protruded too much.

But the thing that made John freeze wasn’t that or the numerous bruises and cuts all along Sherlock’s arms, torso, and shoulders. Very gently, Sherlock very quiet, John took hold of his left arm and stared at the track marks.

“You…”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered in a breath. 

They stayed quiet and John could read the tension in Sherlock’s body, how his shoulders hunched forward and his harsh eyes. He looked like he was expecting stern words or a blow or maybe even for John to tell him to get out. John released Sherlock’s arm and grabbed the first aid kit.

“This is going to be a bit cold,” he softly warned, pressing the stethoscope to Sherlock’s chest. “Breathe in deeply.”

Sherlock watched him for a few moments but did as instructed. John listened to his lungs and his heartbeat, which was stable and strong.

“Your mother or father?” Sherlock quietly asked.

“Hmm, what?”

“Who was the doctor, your mother or father?”

John smiled. “Mum. Dad’s a teacher and Mum’s a bit of a house doctor. Our town’s kind of small and the nearest hospital’s a bit of a drive away so a lot of people came to our place. I picked up quite a bit from helping her out.”

He put the stethoscope away and picked up the small flashlight. Gently, he held Sherlock’s chin in one hand and shined the light into one eye at a time. Both pupils moved as they were expected to.

“I told you I don’t have a concussion.”

“Worth a look,” John smiled. He placed flashlight back in its spot, grabbed two cloths, and quickly went to wet them. When he came back, he handed one to Sherlock. “Wipe off your face and hair; there’s still blood.”

Sherlock used one cloth to clean his face while John gently wiped down his right arm, taking count of the bruises and cuts. Nothing looked like it needed stitches, just a plaster and time to heal.

When Sherlock finished, John got up and tossed the rag into the bathroom sink. He returned and wiped down Sherlock’s chest. He shivered and John chuckled. “Sorry, I should have used warm water.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock rumbled. His eyes were drifting shut again.

It took a few minutes to clean Sherlock’s front. John ran into the kitchen to grab a few ice packs and wrapped one around the large, dark bruise on Sherlock’s side that looked enough like the blow from a kick that it made John’s stomach knot.

“All right, lay down, I’ll get your back,” John said.

Sherlock immediately flopped down, making sure not to hit the wrapped portions of his torso, wiggling around until he was on his front. His nose nuzzled into John’s pillow for a few seconds. John briefly smiled and started cleaning his back, wincing at the collection of bruises.

It was quiet between them; Sherlock’s breathing was even and deep. John lightly ran his fingers around a ragged cut, mouth thin and eyebrows furrowed.

“Why are you doing this?”

John looked over to Sherlock’s half-lidded eyes. There was confusion etched across his face, as if he couldn’t quite figure John out.

“What? You mean, helping you?” Sherlock gave a small nod and John sighed. “You’re my friend, you git. Of course, I’d help you. Wasn’t just going to leave you there with the rubbish.”

“We barely know each other.”

“So?” John shrugged. He smiled a bit and set out applying more ice packs.

“Do you help every person you snog in a club?”

John chuckled. “Well, none of them have ended up beaten in the garbage before, so it’s just you so far.”

Sherlock stayed quiet and closed his eyes. John laid a towel over his back, hoping the ice packs wouldn’t melt everywhere and took both of their shoes off.

“Go to sleep,” John instructed, though Sherlock was most of the way there. “We’ll get you stuffed with food and paracetamol when you wake up, okay?”

Sherlock hummed and John stayed, watching his body relax. He shook himself out of it when Sherlock quietly snored, obviously exhausted.

Making sure to be as quiet as possible, John set about cleaning his room a little. It was usually cleaner but studying apparently stopped him from noticing the piles of dishes at the side of his bed. He pushed his dirty laundry into one corner and covered it all with a towel. Glancing at Sherlock, John went into the hallway and pulled down one of the spare blankets. He returned and carefully laid it across Sherlock’s form. The tall boy just pushed himself further into John’s pillow.

John brought the dishes to the sink and filled a clean glass with water. He went back to his room and placed it by the side table by his bed. He also put a spare shirt and pair of trousers out for Sherlock, should he choose to change.

With that taken care of, John went back and started in on the dishes. He tried to do so quietly, wincing whenever the pots clanged together. Halfway through scrubbing God-knows-what from a large pot, his phone chirped. John put the pot down, dried his hands and read the message.

_Everything okay? I told Bill what happened. He wants to know if we should stop by? –CR_

_Everything’s fine. Sherlock’s asleep and should be okay. He just a bit bruised up. Thanks again! –JW_

_Okay. :) Text me tomorrow if you need anything. – CR_

John slipped his phone in his pocket, smiling at Clara’s message. He finished the dishes and wiped down the counters. Ian had been leaving more and more of a mess behind himself lately. As much as John didn’t mind cleaning, he was going to have to talk to his friend about it.

Once somewhat satisfied with the state of the kitchen, John went and checked on Sherlock. He peeked into the room to see that the dark-haired boy hadn’t so much as twitched, still peacefully snoring.

John picked up the main room a bit, bringing more dishes to the sink and tossing Ian’s dirty clothes into his room. He stopped once his stomach rumbled.

Heading back into the kitchen, John opened the already mostly empty fridge. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock would want to eat…

“There’s a decent Chinese a few blocks from here that delivers,” rumbled a voice behind him.

John turned to a sleepy Sherlock, blanket wrapped around him.

“You should still be asleep.”

He smiled as he spotted his own pajamas on Sherlock. The bottoms were too short, coming up mid-calf on the taller boy, with the sleeves of the T-shirt falling down to his elbows. There was a strip of belly showing, a trail of hair peeking out.

“My stomach woke me,” Sherlock admitted, an annoyed pinch to his face.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“You said you have paracetamol?”

John narrowed his eyes, clearly seeing the dodging of the question but going with it. “Food first.” He took out his mobile. “Do you have the number for that Chinese place you want?”

Sherlock held out hand, not even looking at John. He was glancing around the room, taking in information. John dropped the phone in the waiting hand with an amused sigh. He started texting, still not looking. 

“They reply to text?”

“For me, they do.”

John found that he wasn’t that surprised. Sherlock finished the text quickly and tossed the phone back to John.

“So,” he started, grabbing a cup and turning the kettle on. “You mentioned someone named ‘Mycroft’? Is that the cross-dresser that sent the thugs after you?”

Sherlock huffed out a short laugh. “No, he’s an annoyance that enjoys sticking his overly large nose into all my business. I prefer he doesn’t know about what happened but chances are that he already does.”

John considered that for a few moments. “Sibling, then?”

Sherlock looked at him with a little smirk. “Indeed. Older brother. Don’t worry,” he lounged on the couch, sheet pulled around him, “you’ll probably meet him any day now.”

“Going to be introducing me to your family, then?” John asked, a little hesitantly, not sure as to why the idea prickled at his skin.

Sherlock just hummed and blatantly switched topics. “What sort of trip is your flatmate on, the weekend before exams?”

“Ah, he’s hunting with his dad. Goes about once a month. I told him he was crazy for going just before exams but he said it’s a sort of tradition.”

“He was certainly excited for it,” Sherlock commented, looking around at the mess that John hadn’t managed to pick up.

“Excited?” John huffed, coming over and pushing Sherlock’s feet out of the way to sit down. “The wanker’s been in a right mood; didn’t go to his classes last week because he was at the gym, cleaned out the fridge, up-ended this entire room to find a certain pair of gloves. I was ready to strangle him.”

“Perhaps a new girlfriend,” Sherlock mused, eyes closed.

“He’s already got one.”

“That rarely stops people.”

John elbowed him in the leg. “Trust me, his girlfriend would skin him if she found out – Teresa Donovan is not a girl you’d want angry at you.”

“Hmm. I know her sister, Sally. She certainly knows how to hold a grudge.”

“Teresa warned me away from you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at John. “Did she now?”

“Yeah. Told me that you’re the wrong sort to hang about with. Made it sound like you were dangerous.”

“And yet here you are.”

They were silent for close to a full minute before John smiled. There was a knock at the door and he stood, patting Sherlock on the leg where he’d elbowed him. “You don’t seem so terrible to me. Bit of trouble, yeah, but not terrible.”

Sherlock just watched him silently, fingers touching in pose similar to that of prayer, while John opened the door. He thanked the man, taking the boxes of food.

“Hold on, my wallet’s here somewhere.”

“Don’t bother, John,” Sherlock said from the couch. “It’s already paid for.”

“Oh.” He smiled a little hesitantly at Sherlock and then back to the delivery man. “Er, thanks.”

“No problem!” the boy beamed.” Mr Holmes saved our business and it’s the least we can do!”

“Um, all right. You have a nice night.”

John shut the door and went about getting them set up with forks and plates. He flopped down on the couch, Sherlock already munching through a box of noodles.

“So, you saved their business?”

“It was a dreadfully dull affair. I just had to tell the health inspector that I would go to his wife and explain all about his affair if he mentioned the wild dog in his report.”

John nearly choked on a piece of chicken. “The what?!”

“Oh, the son had accidentally attracted a wild dog into their restaurant the night the inspector showed up. Made a whole mess of the place but it was a simple one time happening.”

John got his breath back, having inhaled a bit of sauce. “Ah, all right. Hold on, how did you know he was having an affair?”

“His shoes. Practically screamed it at me.”

John chuckled. “You are amazing.”

Sherlock looked down at his food, a small smile pulling at his lips. “I’ve eaten some. Paracetamol?”

John smiled and went to get the medicine.

Later, once they had both eaten their fill and were drowsy, John stood and stretched. He threw away the empty boxes and cleaned up the small mess they had made. Sherlock was half asleep, head lolling against the back of the sofa.

“Come on, don’t sleep here.” John held out a hand.

“Where will you sleep?” Sherlock cracked one eye open.

“We’ll both sleep in my bed.”

A teasing grin found its way across Sherlock’s face. “Taking me to bed already, John?”

“God, yes.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and dragged the blanket with him. In the bedroom, he immediately rolled onto the bed. John changed into his sleepwear, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him the whole time.

“Are you checking out my arse?” he teased.

“You’re the one changing right in front of me.”

“You’re the one looking.”

John climbed into the bed and laid down on his back. Sherlock was on his side, still bundled in the blanket.

“Come on then.” John laid his arm out, motioning for Sherlock to budge over. The punk watched him for a quiet moment before moving closer. He gently placed his head on John’s shoulder. John could feel the tension in his body. “This all right?”

“It’s…” Sherlock trailed off. He moved the blanket to cover both of them and slung an arm across John’s chest. “It’s fine.”

John gently placed a hand on Sherlock’s back, feeling the slight warmth radiating from the taller boy. As if taking that as a cue, Sherlock cuddled closer, his breath ghosting across John’s collarbone. His breathing quickly grew steady and deep. John stayed awake just long enough to hear Sherlock start to quietly snore before he closed his eyes and drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should all know that I almost giggled myself into a coma while writing the beginning part. Because torturing John via sexual frustration is the best fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading~ <3


	4. Flatmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a ridiculous number of excuses as to why this is so late but they pretty much all boil down to me being hella busy and low on inspiration. ~~Comments give me inspiration though~~~
> 
> I have got to thank SallySorrell (you can find her on AO3 and Tumblr under that name) for being a beast of an editor and a sweetie pie and just all around awesome person.
> 
> Thanks also to the people that listened to me rant for hours about this story. You know who you are. Expect cookies on your doorsteps.
> 
> Enjoy~
> 
> EDIT: Whoops, how the shit did I forget this?? QuinnAnderson (the lovely lady from Fuckyeahteenlock for whom this story is dedicated to) made a cover for this! :O Amazing! Can be found here [[x](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/51004439659/drop-of-red-by-anonymoussong-graphics-by-grace)] and here [[x](http://i199.photobucket.com/albums/aa125/zenny1410/Sigs/dropofredtext_zps157aa2f5.png)]

Morning found John as it usually did; he awoke without warning and lay still in bed, taking a few minutes to figure out that he was no longer asleep. He ran his tongue over his teeth, the cotton-dry feeling in his throat making his mouth taste sour. But that was how it normally went.

What was unusual was having another body sprawled atop his. There were dark curls mushed against his chin, steady breathing tickling his chest, and a leg wrapped over one of his.

John tried to look down at Sherlock as best he could without moving. He was still asleep, breathing out when John breathed in. His left arm was thrown across John’s stomach, fingers just barely grazing his side. Sherlock’s weight was grounding and entirely too warm and too comfortable.

John shifted slightly, moving up so he could see better. Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible against John’s bare skin before falling silent. John couldn’t see his face but had a decent view of the rest of the long body sprawled atop him. He spotted the bruises on Sherlock’s back, peeking out from under the borrowed shirt. They were startling; dark purple marks against pale, marble skin. Something about it was gut-twisting.

Sherlock’s fingers twitched against John’s side. John swept his right hand up Sherlock’s arm in a comforting motion. He stopped at Sherlock’s elbow, cradling the arm. His eyes took in the puncture wounds, the history laid across him. John gently traced his fingertips over the track-marks, his mind curiously blank.

Fingertips traced down his side and hip, mimicking the motion John was making. He still couldn’t see his face, but John could tell that Sherlock had woken up. They both stayed silent, neither knowing quite what to say.

John moved his hand up Sherlock’s arm, keeping the touch just as gentle. He moved back down, briefly running his thumb over the marks in the pit of Sherlock’s elbow before going down to brush over his fingers.

“Hungry?” he asked in just over a whisper.

“You’re going to make me eat even if I’m not,” Sherlock rumbled. His voice vibrated through John’s chest, his piercing rubbed against his skin, and John shivered from the combination.

“Well, if you want more paracetamol, then yes, I’m going to see that you eat.”

A sigh: “If I must.”

“Don’t sound too excited now,” John chuckled.

Sherlock traced John’s hipbone with one long finger. “I don’t like it.”

“What? Eating? You need to eat to survive, Sherlock.”

“It slows my mind down and takes up too much time. It’s tedious and dull and I’d rather do without it.”

“Well, it’s no wonder you’re just skin and bones. I’m surprised you haven’t cracked your skull from fainting yet!”

“I do possess the sense to eat before that occurs.”

“You should still eat more.”

“Yes, Mother.”

There was an annoyed clip to Sherlock’s words and John felt an embarrassed knot grow in his stomach. He slid his left hand up Sherlock’s back, tickled his palm on the shaved half of his head, and threaded it into his curls, an apologetic motion.

“Sorry. It’s not my place to say stuff like that.” John felt an uncomfortable prickle go through his skin, feeling like he’d crossed a boundary.

Sherlock was quiet for a several moments before rolling over fully onto John. His eyeliner was smudged, making his silver eyes all the more startling. He surged forward and crushed his lips to John’s, cradling his head with his long fingers. John was surprised for about three seconds before returning the kiss, grabbing Sherlock’s hips to align them more. They groaned into each other’s mouths as their cocks moved against the other.

Long fingers found their way under John’s shirt before scratching down his sides. John shivered and moved to suck on Sherlock’s neck. The punk almost whimpered, tightly gripping John’s hips. Smirking, John bit down on the pale neck, feeling the thud of Sherlock’s heartbeat under his lips. A ragged gasp sawed through Sherlock. His hips twitched forward and John’s groaned at the movement.

Sherlock pushed John away, startling him. But just as quick, Sherlock’s hand was down the front of John’s trousers, tracing his length through his pants. 

“Fuck!” John swore, gripping the sheets. Sherlock just quietly watched him, lips slightly swollen. There was the hint of a bruise forming on his neck. “Shit!”

Diving down, Sherlock latched his mouth to John’s, not allowing him to speak. Their moans rumbled through each other, John’s breath stopping in his chest with every stroke of Sherlock’s fingers. John could feel the weight on his lower stomach growing, twisting, ready to burst. The punk above him moved down to nip at John’s throat.

“Sherlock!” John cried, eyes shut tight. Sherlock stopped moving for the briefest of moments. John could feel his hands shaking. Something blared a warning in John’s mind.

“Wait,” John gasped. He opened his eyes and looked down at the younger boy. “Hold on, just... Wait, Sherlock.”

The punk was frozen above him, breathing raggedly against his neck. Their chests were both heaving and John was hard enough that it was difficult to clear his mind. Sherlock silently withdrew his hand from John’s trousers, not meeting his eye.

“Hey, look at me,” John instructed. He reached up and held Sherlock’s head between his hands, forcing their eyes to meet. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock peered at him, looking almost as if he had been slapped. The emotion bled away into a blank mask after a second, but John had seen the surprise. His heart gave a strange twist.

“Let’s slow down a bit, yeah?” John suggested. The foggy heat that had been overtaking his mind was receding more and more every second.

Sherlock searched his face before giving a very small nod, looking almost lost as he rolled completely off John to stand on the floor next to the bed. John blinked a few times from the fluidity of the movement and how quickly it had happened. Sherlock stretched his arms up, sucking his stomach in with a deep breath. His back was littered with more bruises, some of which had changed color and others were fading. John’s borrowed trousers slipped lower on Sherlock’s hips.

Unashamedly staring, John sat up a bit awkwardly, still extremely hard. A glance at Sherlock showed that he was in the same state, though he seemed to be ignoring it.

John grabbed a towel from the floor, hoping it was reasonably clean. “I’ll take the first shower and then make breakfast, okay?” His hand hovered above a bandage on Sherlock’s side that was slightly tinted. “I’ll get you new plasters and such, too.”

He looked up to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was staring at him like he was the strangest creature to ever cross his path. John didn’t ask, only smiled at him. That made Sherlock’s eyes narrow a fraction.

John stood, turning away. “I’ll only be a minute or two,” he said a bit awkwardly before retreating to the shower.

He quickly got the shower started, putting his hand under the spray and waiting for it to heat up. Once it was a reasonable temperature, John stripped and jumped in. 

There was a noise like low voices from the other room. John stuck his head out from the shower, trying to identify it. Had Ian come home early?

“...The company is facing charges from Phillimore’s parents about the collapsed bed...”

John went back under the shower spray. Sherlock must have turned the telly on to the news, then. He quickly washed himself, his erection flagging. John didn’t bother with it, though his muscles felt knotted. He scrubbed his hair with more force than necessary.

Once done and out, John ran a towel through his hair and then wrapped it around his waist. He’d forgotten to grab clothes when he had scampered to the shower. He left the heat of the bathroom and went back to his room, hearing the telly still playing the other room.

“Shower’s open, Sherlock!” John called out. He received no response.

Entering his room, the first thing John noticed was that Sherlock’s clothes were gone and the clothes he had borrowed for the night were in a pile at the foot of John’s bed. John quickly found some pants and pair of jeans and threw them on before going into the living room.

The television was still playing the news. A woman reported in a grave voice: “Phillimore’s loft bed collapsed with him in it, leading to fatal wounds. He was found early this morning by his roommate…” John wasn’t really listening.

“Sherlock?” he called. He went into the kitchen where there was the bottle of paracetamol was sitting on the table. “Sherlock?”

The flat was silent, save for the reporter explaining people’s reactions to another death tied to the university.

John checked all the rooms again, even peeking into Ian’s mess of a bedroom. He opened the front door and looked out, ignoring the raised eyebrow his shirtlessness provoked from a passing neighbor. He retreated back into the flat.

The news had transitioned over to the weather and John shut it off. The quiet that followed surrounded him. John stood in his living room for several long minutes, as if waiting for something. He finally snapped out of it when his phone rang in the other room. John went to grab it, answering it without checking the ID.

“Yeah?” He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

“Oh, John, dear, you’re awake, wonderful,” Mrs Hudson quickly started. “Do you mind coming in today? I know it’s not one of your days but Clara and I are swamped! There’s apparently been a death near here and all the students are flocking to the cafe!”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, Mrs H. I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you so much, John, I’m sorry to disturb your day!”

“No, it’s...” he swallowed through whatever was clogging his throat. “It’s fine. Wasn’t planning on doing anything anyway.”

“All right. I’ll see you when you get in.”

“Yeah, okay.”

She hung up and John stared at his phone for a few moments, flicking through his messages. There weren’t any new ones and he eventually just tossed the phone on the bed and got dressed.

\----

“And there went the last one!” Clara happily announced to John as she locked the door behind the last customer. He set down the tub of dishes by the sink. “We are now officially closed. Finally!”

John groaned happily. “Finally. I think that was the most people I’ve ever seen here at one time.”

“Yeah. Thankfully, they opened the dorms back up. Can you believe that; another death?”

Mrs Hudson wiped down another table and gave a sad sigh. “That poor boy. James, was it?”

“James Phillimore, yeah. They said his loft bed was loose or something and when he climbed up, it fell. Speared him, right through the middle.”

John threw Clara a look as Mrs Hudson shuddered. “Behave.”

She punched him lightly in the shoulder, making soapy water splash onto the counter. “Shut it, you git. I’m just stating facts.”

“Just check your audience next time.”

She rolled her eyes and started drying the cups.

“Thank you again, John, for coming in,” Mrs Hudson said, coming over. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your day…”

“It’s fine, really, Mrs H. No harm done. Besides, I wouldn’t just let the café get rampaged like that.”

She smiled at him, patting his shoulder. “Good lad.”

“What about Sherlock?” Clara asked a bit warily, once their boss had moved into the kitchen, out of earshot. “What happened with that whole… mess?”

John watched his hands swirl through the bubbles in the sink. “He left this morning.”

“Oh.” Clara went quiet, drying a cup until it squeaked.

“What is it?”

Clara sighed, placing the dish to the side and grabbing another. “I don’t know, John. He seems like the… like the dangerous type.” She shook her head. “It’s no place for me to judge a bloke before really knowing him but come on, John, you found him beaten up among the rubbish, for Christ’s sake, and he acted like it was an everyday happening!”

John paused in his washing, feeling torn. “You’re not the only person to warn me against him,” he admitted. “Teresa told me to not hang around him…”

“Ian’s girl?” John nodded. Clara considered that in silence before clearing her throat. “I’ve met her before, I think, and her sister. Both of them know what they’re talking about when it comes to people, John. If Teresa’s telling you to not get involved with the guy…”

“Look, Clara, thanks for the concern but it doesn’t matter,” John said quickly, keeping his eyes fixed on the dishes. His shoulders felt tense and there was a burning going on somewhere in his chest. “I think I scared him off this morning, anyway. He’s not going to be showing up around me anymore, I think.”

“Oh.” Clara looked like she wanted to comfort him but still felt awkward about the whole thing. “I’m… Okay.” She went back to drying the cups.

Mrs Hudson came from the back room, plastic bags in her hands for bagging the leftover desserts. She seemed to notice the tension in the air. “What’s going on, dears? Something the matter?”

John and Clara exchanged a glance. John sighed and smiled at Mrs Hudson. “No, it’s just been a long day; we’re both tired is all.”

The older woman obviously didn’t buy it, but she let it slide, casting them worried looks.

They stayed silent until all the dishes were washed and they were both drying the last of them.

“Look, I just want you to be careful, okay?” Clara asked quietly. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

John watched her for a few moments before smiling softly. He put an arm around her shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Thanks, Clara.”

\-----

John was startled awake the next night when the front door slammed. Ian stomped into the flat, more than obviously in a dark mood. He made a beeline for his room as John was rubbing the grit from his eyes, slamming the door behind him. _If I Can’t Have You_ started blasting seconds later. John could practically hear the neighbors’ annoyance levels skyrocket.

He picked his dropped textbook up off the floor, feeling his neck pop and stretch from the uncomfortable angle it had been caught in. John glanced at the clock and then groaned.

“Ian!” he called, his jaw cracking in a yawn. “Ian, turn the damn music down! It’s four in the bloody morning! The landlord’ll kick us out, if the students don’t kill us first.”

The music went louder. John heard a yell from the flat next to them.

Growling, he went to Ian’s door and tried to open it. The handle didn’t budge; locked.

“Ian, I’m serious! Turn it down!”

“Fuck off, John!”

“I will break down the sodding door and come in there and break your stereo over your head, you bastard!”

“Come and try it!”

“Last chance!”

There was no reply from the other side of the door. John counted to five in his head before backing up a step and making his stance stable. Just as he raised his leg to kick the door open, the volume of the music quickly plunged. John wobbled.

“Go away, John,” came the dejected call from the room.

John righted himself, confused and worried. “Ian? Are you all right? What the bloody hell happened?”

“Go to sleep, John.” The light at the bottom of Ian’s door clicked off and John heard his friend collapse onto his bed.

John stood outside the door, not entirely sure what to do. After several minutes of quiet, he finally shuffled to his room. He lay in bed for a long time, just staring at the ceiling, tired but seemingly unable to find sleep.

After being jolted awake by his alarm at eight, John left his room to find that Ian had already left.

\----

“Oh, John, you look exhausted!”

John gave Mrs Hudson a tired smile, putting his bag behind the counter. “Exams are killing me a bit, yeah.”

“Sweetie, you should go home and get some sleep! I can take care of the café; not many students are coming in anyway. They’re all at the library, I suspect.”

“It’s okay, I can work…”

“No, no, dear.” She picked up his bag, huffing under the weight and passed it back to him. “I don’t want to see you back here until next week. Go on – go home. And if you see Clara, tell her the same.”

John sighed, smiling a bit, before planting a small kiss on her cheek. “Thanks Mrs H.”

She patted his shoulder. “You’re going to work yourself to death, I swear.”

\----

John downed his third coffee of the day. He yawned despite the caffeine and went back to his papers. Around him were the sounds of people shifting in their seats, papers being ruffled, and the click of keyboards.

“Clara, I think my head’s going to implode,” he whispered.

“Shut it. You’ve only got one exam left. I’ve got three,” she mumbled, face in a book. “Two in one day, John, _two_. Can you shoot me?”

He chuckled lightly and pushed the bag of mints to her. Clara took one and popped it in her mouth, the shock of the taste visibly waking her up more.

“Two days left and then we can all sleep for a week. Possibly two.”

Clara snorted. “Excuse you; I’m going to try to _hibernate_ after this. Don’t expect to see me for three months.”

John giggled, a little punch drunk from lack of sleep. He’d been spending most of his time in the library, Clara at his side as they tried to memorize their way through multiple textbooks.

“How are Ian’s tests going?”

John shook his head, eyebrows pulling together. “I don’t know. Bastard came home in a right mood Monday night and I haven’t seen him since.”

Clara considered this. “You think something happened with his dad?”

“I don’t know,” John sighed, rubbing at his face. His vision swam for a few moments and he blinked the black spots away. “I don’t know anything about his dad; never met him. I don’t even know his name. Just that Ian goes on hunting trips with him sometimes.”

Clara shrugged. “Maybe they had a disagreement. If it’s important, I’m sure he’ll tell you; he just needs to calm down or something.”

“Yeah, I guess.” John didn’t quite know how to explain the anger that had radiated from Ian that night, even from behind a closed door. He’d never seen his friend like that, despite all the years of knowing him.

“Hey.” Clara reached over and grabbed his hand. She smiled softly. “I know he’s your best mate. It’ll be okay.” She giggled. “You men just don’t know how to share your feelings.”

He maturely stuck his tongue at her but slipped on a grin. “You’re such a git.”

“You love me, though.”

“I guess I do, midget-ness and all.”

She kicked him under the table.

\----

John stumbled into the flat, tossing his bag down and closing the door behind him. He immediately went and flopped down on the sofa, already half-asleep. Finally finished with his last exam, he was more than ready to sleep for a week, possibly even join Clara in her hibernation idea. He turned over onto his back, not even bothering to kick his shoes off.

The flat was silent around him; he couldn’t even hear the neighbors. John felt himself slipping into sleep, counting his breaths. Before he fully sank under, he wondered what he was going to say to Ian when the bastard came in.

There was a fast knock on the front door.

John groaned, loud enough that hopefully whoever was at the door realized that they were in fact bothering him and would kindly fuck off so he could sleep.

The knock came again, impatient and demanding.

“Go away!” he shouted, pulling a pillow over his head.

There was a pause and John prayed that whoever it was had decided to go away because if they knocked one more time, he was going to open the door and shove a textbook somewhere unpleasant.

There was a tiny sound of metal against metal and the doorknob wobbled. John cracked open his eyes and stared at it, trying to figure out what was going on. He was up seconds later, rushing to the door. He opened it with a growl.

“Are you really going to pick the lock when I-”

Sherlock Holmes was crouched in front of him, lockpicks in hand. He stood in a quick movement, shoving the picks into his jeans pocket, and raised an eyebrow at John.

“You weren’t opening the door.”

John gaped at the punk in front of him. “Wha-”

“You weren’t at work. I texted but your phone seems to be off.”

“You-”

“Would it be acceptable for me to stay here for the night?”

John stared at Sherlock, blinking in confusion. “Um, what?”

“Here. I need to stay somewhere. My flat’s been destroyed.”

“Your flat has been destroyed?”

“You have a habit of repeating the things that I say; strangely, I don’t find it irritating but you should know that you do it.”

John shook his head, which was buzzing. “Okay, okay, just.” He grabbed Sherlock and dragged him into the flat, shutting the door behind him. “Okay, start from the beginning. What’s this all about?”

Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa where John had been trying to nap moments before. He brought his hands up in a prayer position, fingertips just touching his lips. The black polish on his nails contrasted with his skin.

“Someone has seen fit to destroy everything in my flat. Extremely inconvenient; my experiments are all ruined.” He said this without any tone in his words, looking already lost in his head.

John moved some of the notebooks and dishes from the table and sat down on it, looking at Sherlock. “Do you know who would do something like that? Did you go to the police?”

Sherlock scoffed. John figured he would have rolled his eyes as well if the action hadn’t been deemed beneath him. “The police are all idiots. And I know the criminal behind it.”

A silence settled for several moments before John cleared his throat. “Can I ask whom?”

“A dealer I got sent to prison three years ago. He was let out last month. I suspected he would do something like this, but it took longer than expected so I had falsely believed he had either let it go or had forgotten.”

“Clearly not,” John mumbled, not entirely sure what to do with the information. “So, he destroyed everything?”

“Yes. Cut up the clothes, smashed my lab equipment, tore my books. He even went so far as to break the tea mugs.”

John sputtered. “That’s a bit extreme!” He rubbed a hand down his face.

“A small inconvenience, but one nonetheless,” Sherlock hissed in an airily way, if that were possible. “Material things. Besides, I have more at my parent’s house.”

“Oh.” John sat back. “Then… Not to sound rude but, erm, why don’t you go there?”

“I hate my parents.” Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. John wondered if he planned to fall asleep there.

“You know, you’re welcome to use my bed.”

Lips quirked up at that and Sherlock peered at him through his lashes. “You always seem quite quick to suggest I get into your bed.”

John coloured but just grinned slyly in response.

“I’m not sleeping,” Sherlock finally said, going back to his position. “I’m thinking.”

“Yeah, okay.” John stood. “At least take your shoes off. Ian gets enough mess on the sofa; don’t need you adding to it.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just scooted his body down until his feet rested on the arm of the sofa. He crossed his ankles, a move that made sure neither shoe was touching the fabric. John waited a full minute, but it was clear that his new, temporary flatmate wasn’t going to be move again.

John gave a quiet sigh and moved towards the kitchen. He checked the cabinets and fridge, seeing what was needed. Sherlock’s appearance had given him a burst of energy and he figured he might as well put it to good use.

When he finished writing out a list of groceries, John headed back into the main room. It didn’t seem as if Sherlock had moved from his spot but his boots were off.

“Thanks.” John smiled. “I’ll be back. Popping down to Tesco for a few things.” He threw his coat on. “Er, do you need anything?”

Sherlock’s only response was a vague humming noise. John left him to it, locking the door behind him.

A neighbor waved a greeting that John returned. He made his way down the building’s stairs, re-reading the list. At the bottom, he didn’t glance up for more than a moment before setting off.

It was a nice day at least, John observed. He looked around at the people; some were students like him, others were parents with their children, or workers returning home early.

John turned a corner. Against the wall, a girl leaned. She was about John’s age with long brown hair, eyes glued to her mobile. Her fingers were blazing over her keyboard. She popped a loud piece of bubblegum. John briefly glanced at her as he passed, vaguely mesmerized by her typing speed.

The girl moved from against the wall without a glance up and began walking in the same direction as John. At the same speed. She matched him, step for step, never looking up from her mobile but dodging people with ease. John watched her out of the corner of his eye. When he turned another corner, she followed along, still texting. She was silent, not looking at him, but he had the oddest notion that she was following him. He wondered if he was just being ridiculously paranoid. John slowed his gait and his confusion grew when she slowed down as well. He sped up and she again matched him step for step, clicking in her heels.

John stopped in his tracks, watching the woman through narrowed eyes. She halted as well, still looking at her phone.

“Er, hello?” he offered after a few moments. A few people moved around them.

She shot him an incredibly false smile. “Hi.” Eyes back to her phone.

John looked around, wondering if this was a bizarre joke. “Uh, are you following me? Just wondering.”

She hummed, a smirk pulling on her bright lips.

“Can I ask why?”

Her fingers continued with their clicking on the keyboard of her mobile.

“Okay.” John set off at a fast stride, wondering if his day planned to get any weirder.

The girl continued walking, keeping up with him easily. John tried not to be annoyed by that.

Their silence kept up until they made it to the store. Once at the entrance, she stopped, still engaged with her phone but obviously rooted to the spot where she stood. John watched her, not quite sure what to expect and just thrown off by the entire situation. He shook it off and headed inside.

Twenty minutes later, John emerged from the store, a headache brewing. God help him, he hated the chip-and-pin machines. Bloody things never worked. A worker had finally come to help him but John could still feel how red his face was from a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.

The girl was still by the door, looking as if she hadn’t moved an inch. _Still_ texting. How in bloody hell was she still texting?

John started walking, adjusting the bags in his hands. Within moments, the click of heels was next to him.

“So, what’s your name, then?” he asked, glancing to his side.

“Uh…” She seemed to have to think about it. “Karen.”

“Karen?” John echoed. “Is that your real name?”

Another brightly fake smile. “No.”

John nodded, absorbing this. The silence stretched for several seconds. “I’m John,” he introduced.

Karen gave an amused chuckle. “I know.”

John briefly wondered if he was in fact dreaming and was about to wake up on his sofa. He entertained the thought all the way back to his flat. Once they reached the building, Karen stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. John continued up, not looking back.

He managed to get through his flat door with his hands full up with bags and immediately stopped once he stepped inside.

Sherlock was still spread out on the sofa, looking like he hadn’t so much as twitched since John left. The only difference was the rather annoyed look stretched across his face.

There was a man John had never seen before standing by Sherlock’s feet. He was in an obviously expensive three-piece suit, not a hair out of place, with an umbrella clutched in his hand. It was almost comical how much he didn’t belong in the flat.

The man spared him a scanning glance, his eyes roaming from John’s head to his toes and back before turning away. John felt oddly stripped and vulnerable.

“They are insisting, Sherlock,” the posh man said down his nose to the punk on the sofa.

“Aren’t there cakes for you to eat _somewhere else_?” Sherlock sneered.

“Come now. Don’t make me force you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Erm, sorry,” John interrupted. “Who are you?”

A pair of silver eyes and a pair of grey eyes raked over him. The umbrella man looked back to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes stayed riveted on John.

“Really, Sherlock. Mummy is insisting.”

“Really, Mycroft. I’ve already expressed how very much I do not want to go and unless you are ready and willing to physically drag me from this flat, I would very much like to see you leave.”

“Mycroft?” John echoed. “Your brother, Mycroft?”

“Yes, the very one,” Sherlock sighed. He closed his eyes. “As I stated before, he’s an annoying fat git who enjoys sticking his nose in my business.”

_“Sherlock.”_

_“Mycroft.”_

“Okay, okay, girls, calm down.” John put the Tesco bags to the side. Both Holmes shot him peeved looks. “You know, I’m guessing Sherlock didn’t let you in and I don’t appreciate my flat being broken into. ” He chose to ignore the fact that Sherlock had barged his way into the flat earlier after trying to pick the lock. If John had wanted to stop him, he could have.

Mycroft gave John a narrow-eyed grin. It was creepy and John had the oddest thought that he should start sleeping with a knife under his pillow. “Do forgive my intrusion. I merely came to collect my brother.”

“I’ve already told you. I. Am. _Not_. Going,” Sherlock growled. He proceeded to snuggle back into the sofa with his eyes still blazing in rebellion. John struggled to keep the smile from his face. “I have fine accommodations here and do not require nor want your assistance.”

Mycroft ground his umbrella into the floor but otherwise stayed still.

John stood a bit awkwardly, the door still open behind him. He felt like saying something, mostly for both of the madmen in his flat to either leave or let him have some peace, but he felt it wasn’t his place. Which was utterly insane seeing as how it was _his flat_.

“Look.” Mycroft turned to him and gave a false smile. It was strangely familiar and before he realized what he was saying, John asked, “Do you happen to know a girl named Karen?”

Sherlock scoffed. “She’s changed her name again? What will it be next, Anthea? Helena? Violet?”

“Don’t give her ideas,” Mycroft said, still looking at John. “Yes, she works for me.”

“You had someone follow me? Are you serious?”

“Annoying fat git!” Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft looked ready to swat them both with his umbrella. He opened his mouth but there was a chime from his mobile. With a look of regret, Mycroft pulled the device from his pocket, staring at it as if it were a foul annoyance.

“Yes, run off to your masters,” Sherlock mocked. “Enjoying the tight leash?”

“That’s quite enough,” Mycroft tensely snapped. He returned his phone to his pocket. “It was… interesting to meet you, John. Sherlock, I’m not through with you. Mummy is quite insisting you come home and she will not be happy until you are there.”

“ _Good-bye_ , Mycroft.”

John stepped out of the way to let the older Holmes through. He received another tense look over before Mycroft was gone. John made sure to close and lock the door behind him. He turned back to Sherlock.

“That was… something.”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock was back to his thinking pose with his eyes closed. But John saw how his feet twitched in aggravated moves and his jaw was clenched. John picked up the Tesco bags and went into the kitchen to put the food away. He wondered how he was going to explain all this to Ian.

Once everything was put away, John peeked back into the main room. Sherlock had taken off his coat, leaving him in a tight black and red Stranglers shirt. It was tucked into black and grey plaid jeans that were tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination.

“So,” John started. His voice was a bit strangled. He coughed and tried again. “So, how are your bruises doing?”

Sherlock lifted his lashes to peer at him. “Fine.”

“Up,” John instructed. “I want to check them.”

Sherlock grunted in a displeased way.

“Hey, you chose to come invade the flat of a doctor-in-training. It’s your own fault. Now, up.” John sat himself on the table, still cleared from earlier. Sherlock pouted before he moved his body into a sitting position, facing him on the sofa. He shucked his shirt in one graceful move.

The marks on Sherlock’s pale skin had turned a greenish yellow, though some were still a deep purple and black. They decorated his ribs and sides. It reminded John, strangely, of ivy climbing up a marble tower.

John pressed a gentle hand to the largest bruise, the one resting just under Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock winced, ever so slightly, and then looked angry with himself for the show of weakness.

“Sorry,” John murmured. “I’ve got more pain medicine. Should take several more days before they fade.” He sent Sherlock a weak glare. “They’d probably look better if you hadn’t run off before.”

A huff was his only answer.

John went to fetch the paracetamol along with a glass of water. He came back and passed Sherlock the glass and popped out two pills for the punk. Sherlock downed them easily.

Silence stretched between them; a comfortable, familiar one. John drank the rest of the water from Sherlock’s glass. His eyes felt like they were trying to drag down his face.

“You should sleep,” Sherlock commented, flopping back against the sofa.

“Wha-?” John started, before being interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn.

“You’re obviously exhausted. An idiot could see that. Go to sleep, John.”

John blinked a few times, though that just made his eyes heavier. He dragged himself to his feet, feeling his earlier exhaustion pulling at his joints. It threatened to surround him and send him toppling to the ground.

“Are you okay out here?”

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow.

“Fine, fine. Of course you are.” John rubbed at the back of his head, another yawn shaking through his chest. “Look, if Ian comes back, wake me up. I need to have a word with the git. If he gives you any trouble, just tell him I said it was okay.”

Without bothering to wait for a lack of response, John trampled to his room. He shucked his shoes and shirt but didn’t stop to take anything else off. Just before he collapsed into bed, John plugged his phone into the charger. It was dead, as Sherlock had assumed.

The screen remained dark for a few seconds before the phone beeped to life. John sat on the edge of his bed and watched the screen start up, the contacts and messages loading. His phone buzzed in his hand, informing him that he had four unread messages. He read them in reverse order.

_Unlock your door or I will unlock it myself. –SH_

_John, you should have finished your exam within the past thirty minutes, meaning you are still in the process of returning home and are thus capable of answering a text message. –SH_

_John. –SH_

_I’m going to have to spend a few nights in your flat; mine has been destroyed. –SH_

John couldn’t help but smile. He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, saying aloud what he had wrote. How his voice would be clipped and irritated; more annoyed that he had to ask for help than John’s lack of answer.

A strange ball started to grow in John’s stomach; it felt like air was filling him up, yet simultaneously weighing him down. John felt almost… giddy. He quickly pushed the feeling away and tried to wipe the smile from his face.

Putting the phone to the side, John laid down on his bed. He didn’t let his mind linger on any of the questions and worries that were circling around. Instead, he let the fog of sleep wash over him.

\----

John woke ten hours later. His phone flashed that it was three in the morning. He stretched and rose, padding into the living room.

Sherlock was gone.

John tried not to be annoyed by that. He hadn’t quite expected him to stay long but then again, John hadn’t expected him to ever show up on his doorstep ever again either.

Thoroughly ignoring the churning in his stomach, John went to make himself some food. He quickly made and ate a sandwich, standing near the pile of dishes in the sink, giving it a grumbling look. Once he was done eating, John sighed and started cleaning. It wouldn’t do for mold or something to start growing.

John quickly grew lost in his thoughts while he washed the dishes. He wondered where Sherlock had gone off to. Perhaps another friend’s house? Though, if he had any others, which John somewhat doubted, why had Sherlock chosen to crash on John’s sofa? Was John his only friend? Was he even Sherlock’s friend or just someone who Sherlock happened to know who didn’t want to punch him in the jaw?

What was that feeling earlier in his stomach, when he had been reading Sherlock’s text messages?

There was a loud cough from behind him. John gave a shout and turned with a wet, soapy spoon in his hand.

Ian raised an eyebrow at him, holding his hands up in surrender.

“ _Jesus_ , Ian!” John exclaimed, a hand over his heart.

“Jesus, John!” Ian mocked in a singsong voice. He smiled and lowered his hands. “You sound like you were expecting someone else.”

He moved around John and went to the fridge, popping a beer out, despite the early hour. His short blond hair was messy and sticking up on one side. He was wrapped in only a pair of boxers, his usual night attire, suggesting that he had been home long enough to sleep.

Ian turned to John, noticing the lack of response to his teasing remark. John quietly turned the water off and dried his hands.

“ _Were_ you expecting someone else?”

“Um, well, we may have a guest.”

“Shit!” Ian yanked the kitchen towel from the counter and covered up the front of his boxers, nearly spilling his beer. “Is she still here? You know the rule, mate! I bought you that tie for a reason!”

“No, no!” John laughed. “No, it’s, um, it’s not that.”

Ian’s eyebrows proceeded to rise into his hairline. He slowly asked, “So. It’s a bloke, then?”

“No! Just…” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean like that. I’ve just got a friend who needed a place to stay for a little bit. So, we’ve got a sort of temporary flatmate.”

“Oh.” Ian made a face, looking uncomfortable. “What happened to their place? Who is it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“His place got trashed and- And I would have told you if you’d been here, you wanker! Where’ve you been? You storm in here all in a huff, nearly get us murdered by the neighbors, and then you avoid me for a week!”

Ian pouted and mumbled, “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

John crossed his arms and glared.

“I wasn’t!” Ian persisted. He placed his beer and the towel on the counter and ran his hands through his hair. His brown eyes looked guilty. “Look, the other night, I was… I had a row, okay? I just didn’t want to talk.”

“Well, I can understand that, mate. Just… You looked really upset.”

“It was nothing. Forget it. You’re avoiding the subject of who’s bunking with you.”

“He’s not bunking with me; Sherlock’s been sleeping on the sofa. I think. He said he doesn’t really sleep… Ian?”

Ian’s eyes had gone wide and he had completely frozen where he stood. In a small voice, he whispered, “Sherlock? As in Holmes?”

John groaned. “Not you, too. Come on, what is everyone’s problem with him? Sure, he’s an annoying dick most of the time but I think he’s fine.”

“No, uh, John, okay,” Ian stammered out. He stopped and took a deep breath, seemingly collecting himself. “So, someone trashed Holmes’ place and now he’s staying here?”

“Yeah. Some dealer he got sent to jail.”

“Did you catch the name of the dealer?”

“No, Sherlock didn’t mention it. Just some bloke he got sent away three years ago or something. Sometimes I wonder who’s madder: him or me for continuing to talk to him.”

“How did you meet him, exactly?”

“Well, he appeared in the café one day and then I saw him at Purgatory the other day when I was there with you and Teresa. Then I found him beat up in an alley during Clara’s show, brought him back here and bandaged him up, and now he’s asking to stay until he, I don’t know, gets a new place or something.”

Ian took this all in with his eyes closed and fingers against his temples. Once John was done, he breathed deeply through his nose, nodded, and looked up.

“So, did I tell you that Teresa asked me to move in with her?”

John jumped at the sudden subject change. “W-what? She did! When?”

“Yeah. That’s what that row was about, the one I was all stroppy over. I don’t want to but she’s insisting.”

John shuffled his feet, still wanting to address the whole Sherlock situation but felt himself being pulled towards the new subject. “Why don’t you want to? I mean, you’ve known her a while; seven months, right?”

Ian waved a hand, blowing John’s words away. “She sprung it so suddenly and we were already in a bit of a tiff and I don’t know.” He kicked a foot, a ridiculously tall four-year-old. “It just feels fast and serious.”

“Look,” John started. Ian peered at him, seeming very much like he needed a hug or something. John clapped him on the shoulder, giving a supportive smile. “I think it’d be fantastic if you moved in with her but if you don’t want to, don’t! Wait until you’re ready.”

Ian’s lips pulled up a bit. “Yes, Mum.”

John swatted him on the head. “Shut it, you wanker.”

He shoved down the memory of Sherlock’s similar words grumbled into his chest. 

“Besides, I know the real reason you told her no,” John teased. Ian raised a nervous eyebrow. With a hand placed dramatically over his heart, John grinned. “It’s because you couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me.”

Ian groaned and flicked the towel at him, smiling. “You’re such a git.” His smile turned strained. “Anyhow, you’ve got Holmes to be your flatmate now, right? Don’t need lil ol’ me no more.”

“Don’t pull that. You know you’re my best friend, yeah?”

“Really?” Ian’s smile turned real and stretched across his face. “Me? Your best friend?”

“Idiot. Of course. Who else?”

Ian gave a soft laugh and looked away. John watched his face grow conflicted; his jaw tightening, his eyes hardening.

“Ian? What is it?”

His friend turned back to him, the emotions melting away. He smiled at John, though it was painfully fake. Something cold twisted in John’s stomach.

“Nothing, mate. Thanks. I’ll think on it - tell you my decision in the morning. Or, later this morning, I suppose.” Ian picked up his beer and moved to go back to his room, giving a two-fingered salute. “G’ night, John! Or morning! Whichever!”

John just watched Ian trudge back to his room, wondering about the strange knot in his throat. Something was bothering his friend; more than just the situation with his girlfriend. John had known Ian for nearly six years and knew when something was there, knawing at Ian’s mind. 

Ian’s bedroom door closed with a soft click. _Manhattan Skyline_ began playing and John went back to washing the dishes.

\----

Sleep schedule thrown off, John stayed up for the rest of the morning. He sipped some tea as the sun rose and debated burning all of his lecture notes. Digging around, he found a lighter and did just that, taking pages that were full of bored drawings or useless information and lighting one corner. The flame grew, devouring line by line, racing to John’s fingertips where he gripped the paper. He only let it drop into the sink once pain laced his hand. It was oddly satisfying.

Ian’s music continued playing and faint noises indicated that he was still alive.

John switched on the telly, watching the news for the weather. The announcer was speaking in a solemn voice about a death that had occurred at ten the previous night. John only slightly paid attention, wiping down the kitchen counters.

“Davenport was found dead behind her flat building. She had been last seen at a party before leaving to return home. Police believe that when she attempted the climb up the stairs to her flat, she fell, resulting in a broken neck. Police are urging that people be safe and responsible…”

The roar of the hoover started up. John muted the telly and stared at Ian’s room, the source of the noise. In all the time they’d lived together, John had never seen Ian hoover. Having to see the phenomenon for himself, John went to Ian’s room and opened the door.

The walls were bare of posters, the drawers of the dresser were open and empty, the window wiped clean. Everything gleamed. It didn’t look as if a twenty-two year old had been living in the room for the past year and a half. John gripped the door, his knuckles turning white. The sight of the room sent his stomach into knots.

“Oi, John, can you move that stand for me?” Ian asked, hoovering up crumbs and eraser shavings.

John stayed in his spot, not entirely sure he remembered how to move. Ian noticed and quickly shut the machine down. “John?”

“You’re leaving?” The question came out in a small voice. John cleared his throat and tried again. “You-you decided that quick?”

Ian shifted his feet guiltily. “Sorry, mate, I… I know it’s fast but…”

“It’s fine,” John quickly said. “‘Course it’s fine, I’m happy for you. Just. I don’t know. I expected you to take a few days at least. I guess.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning heavily against the door frame.

They stood in silence. John felt the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders, his lungs. He swallowed it down and tried to breath around it.

“Look.” John stepped more into the room. “I am happy for you. Really, I am. You’re my best mate and I want you to be happy, yeah? So, um, what else do you need help with?”

Ian stared at him for a few long moments, his jaw clenching. He turned away, nodding his head. “Just got to finish hoovering.”

“What about all your stuff in the rest of the flat?”

Ian waved a hand. “Leave it, toss it, whatever. If I need it, I’ll come back for it but I think I’ve got everything.”

John moved the nightstand and Ian finished cleaning, neither of them talking. John kept his eyes on the floor. He stood in the clean room while Ian put the hoover back in its place in the hall closet. Ian leaned on the doorway when he returned, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“I demand updates,” John said casually. He turned to meet his friend’s eyes, smiling a bit. “I barely see you with you living here; I doubt we’ll see much of each other anymore.”

“Yeah, of course.” Ian walked further into the room and clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “We’re still mates, right? It’s not like we’re never going to see each other’s mugs again. Don’t go wobbly on me now, John.”

John shoved him, a sad smile building. “Just take care, yeah? Don’t torment Teresa - I don’t want to hear about your murder.”

Ian gave a small chuckle. He gripped John’s shoulder tightly for a few seconds before letting go.

“Keep me updated on yourself as well, got it?” Ian smiled. “I want to hear all about your adventures or whatever with Holmes. I want every detail.”

John rolled his eyes but found that a small laugh left him. “Yeah, sure. Every detail. I’ll write out my diary entries to you.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

“Do you need any help with…?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Ian picked up his bags; a backpack and duffel bag. John wondered how he had fit all of his things in there.

Ian looked John in the eye, a serious expression marring his face. “Be careful, okay? Holmes attracts some dangerous characters - don’t let him stay here too long or else they’ll be drawn to you too.”

John sighed lightly. “I’ll be fine, Ian. I can handle myself.”

“I know,” Ian answered. “Still. Best friend. I worry.”

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other.

“Okay, well. Bye, John.”

Ian held out a hand and John grasped it, giving one hard shake. He smiled at his friend and they parted. Ian turned and left the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed behind him.

John stood in the clean room for a long time after, processing.

“Goodbye, Ian.”


End file.
